


drawn to wilder nights

by detectivemeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Asthma, Background Relationships, Drama & Romance, Ensemble Cast, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Melodrama, Pining, References to Depression, Unrequited Love, cannot stress the melodrama enough, friends with exes, scott mccall is the hot girl, unrequited stiles/scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 14:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: Scott and Derek start a frenemies-with-benefits relationship, and it goes about as well as one would expect.





	drawn to wilder nights

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay. i've had the bulk of this beast written for literal years, and finally just edited a few bits so i could finally post it, bc idk if it'll ever really feel done. a few disclaimers:  
this is litcherally like... What if Beacon Hills WAS a Soap Opera? it's really just... decadent dramatic schmoopiness that i created for my own enjoyment  
i used the teen wolf timeline wiki to keep track of this show's weird af timeline (honestly bless whoever made that site) and to make sure no relationship starts until scott's over 18.  
visit me on [tumblr](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/) to tell me how much u love scott mccall <33  
title from The Draw by Bastille

**february, 2011.**

“What a creep,” says Stiles, scrunching his face.

“Isn’t his sister in your English class?”

“Yeah, but still. Who hangs out at his little sister’s high school? I heard his uncle hired his girlfriend to kill his whole family.”

“What?” Scott struggles to fit his books in his bag and glance at Stiles disbelievingly. “That’s definitely not true.”

“What do you know anyway? You didn’t even know the dude existed like, a month ago.”

Scott shrugs and sacrifices his biology homework for expediency, wanting to keep up with Stiles’ long strides. The papers crumple under his violent pull of the zipper and he slings his bag across his back. The man in question raises his head as Stiles and Scott pass him in the parking lot, impossible to read behind his dark sunglasses. Leather jacket, hunched shoulders, feet kicked out from where he leans up against a mean, dark car. It’s impossible to tell but Scott could swear he’s staring right at him.

“And he killed his first girlfriend.”

Scott shakes his head, looks to Stiles, laughs. “You’re so full of crap. She’s in medical school in Philadelphia, she used to bug my mom all the time for a letter of reference from when she volunteered in the hospital.”

Stiles puts his palms up and unlocks Roscoe. “Okay, fine, but! The other stuff’s probably true. His uncle’s still in a coma because of the fire.”

They climb in the Jeep together, metal squeaking under their weight. The engine coughs to life. “Hey, here’s an idea: what if we didn’t exploit someone’s tragedy for our own personal gossip fodder?”

“Buzzkill,” says Stiles, grinning. Scott shoves at him and dives for the radio controls before Stiles can put on one of his awful mixtapes--he’s in a Scandinavian techno-rap phase.

-

**april, 2011.**

Scott taps his finger on the cool edge of the fridge’s door. Apple or danish? On the one hand, delicious flaky danish--which has berries in it! So it was _practically_ a fruit itself. Or, apple. Healthier, less delicious, probably someone won’t miss it as much.

He sighs, reaches for the top shelf when someone says, “Just have the fucking danish.”

Scott jumps and spins, shutting the refrigerator. Derek raises his eyebrows, sitting on the kitchen counter, texting with one hand and drinking a beer with the other.

“Uh…”

“Don’t worry, no one’s saving it or anything. You can go ahead.” He tilts the bottle towards Scott.

Scott bites his lip. He doesn’t really want to eat anything in front of Derek Hale, which is ridiculous, but there’s something vulnerable about it, almost, and Derek doesn’t give off the impression that he handles other people’s… _anything_, very well. But not eating now also feels like he lost a staring contest he didn’t realize he was having, so he grabs the damn danish and a paper napkin from the napkin holder on their island and nibbles at the corner.

“Thanks,” he says, trying for a small smile. He’s still his mother’s son, he’s not about to be rude to someone while he’s a guest in their house--or loft, as it were. “All that studying. Really builds the appetite.” Scott winces internally, and then externally, and then winces harder at his total inability to play it cool.

Derek lifts his eyes from his phone for a brief moment. “Do I look like a hammer?”

“Uh. No?”

“Then why are you treating me like a complete tool?” His gaze drifts back down. “I know you’re here as the third wheel so your weird friend can make out with my sister.”

“Um…” Scott’s starting to sweat, a little, his collar hot and itchy. He’s pretty sure all the rumors about Derek aren’t true, but he is kind of menacing and he doesn’t _not_ look like someone who could kill.

“Tell Cora I’ll be back later,” says Derek. He slips off of the counter and out of the door without a second glance.

Scott looks down at the danish, which is stale and has more weird fruit jelly than actual fruit and regrets meeting Stiles in the first place.

-

“I’m in love,” says Stiles.

Scott melts, slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “She’s amazing. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Stiles beams and tackles him in a hug. “You’ll be my best man at the wedding, right?”

-

**may, 2011.**

“There’s no such thing as fate,” she says.

He wants to hold her hand more than he can ever remember wanting anything. “I believe there is. And I’ll believe enough for the both of us.” He knocks their shoulders together lightly.

Allison laughs, hiccups against the tears, and wraps him in a soft hug. He reciprocates and kisses her cheek when they pull away. “Thank you.”

“I meant it, okay? If you or your mom need help with anything, just call.”

She nods. He forces his legs to stand, to walk out of her room and out of her house and down the street. His heart is torn apart, not a clean break, but a jagged, messy, aching wound. He’s edged and wired and bleeding, his palms too empty, his pulse too fast. He doesn’t notice the sound of a car slowing until it’s too late.

“Hey, buddy.” Stiles pops the passenger door and idles on the street until Scott sighs and climbs in. “You want to go home?”

“No,” he says, shrinking down lower in the seat.

“Okay,” says Stiles, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He drives them out to the Preserve and spreads out with Scott under the canopy of treetops’ silhouette and stars. His hand finds Scott’s and he rests his fingers gently at the inside of Scott’s wrist.

“I know it’s how it has to be, but it still sucks, you know?” Scott’s chest hitches. “Like, a lot.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Scott scoffs. Stiles lifts up on his elbows to look at him. “Seriously, I do.”

“Oh really?” Scott sits up as well, until their knees are pressing together.

“Maybe not exactly the same, but yeah. Cora and I…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say, dude?”

“I dunno.” Stiles picks at his sleeves, not meeting Scott’s eyes. “It just happened today. I mean, things have been going in a pretty obvious direction, but this morning it finally got official. I know what’s going on with you and Allison, so I didn’t want to make you feel worse.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Scott, sincerely. Cora is funny as hell and twice as smart as Stiles and they got on like a house on fire, which was great for them but not so great for the house, or anyone else around them when their evil genius brains bent together. Scott figured they’d work through their rough patch. But then, a month ago he figured he’d be marrying Allison one day.

“It’s okay. It’s just a personality conflict, nothing as exciting as her mom trying to kill herself in her bedroom.”

“Stiles,” Scott snaps, rearing back.

“What? Allison’s doing better now, no more fist fights in school bathrooms. I’m sure her creepy grandpa finally biting the dust helped.”

“_Stiles_,” says Scott, sharply, a clear warning.

“Sorry,” spits Stiles, mouth puckering sourly around the word. He exhales bitterness, leaning back against his palms. “Sorry. Look at us, getting dumped on the same day by our first girlfriends.”

Despite his wariness at Stiles’ comments, Scott huffs a near laugh. “You and me, huh? Through thick and thin.”

“Til death do us part.”

“That’s bleak.”

“Well, I mean it.” Stiles grabs Scott’s left hand, ties a blade of grass around the ring finger. “Think you can handle being my rebound?”

Scott laughs in earnest now. “Like _that_ wouldn’t be a disaster.” He plucks a piece of grass from the ground and feels a twinge of guilt for it. “This isn’t legally binding, right?”

“Oh, totally,” says Stiles, admiring his new green engagement ring. “Here, in front of God and all these witness trees.”

“Wait! Crap.” Scott tries to twist the grass off but it’s tied too tightly, so he snaps it off with his teeth. Stiles raises both brows, mouth curled in a frown. “I just remembered, you still think _Star Wars_ is better than _Star Trek_. We have to get a divorce.”

“Because it _is_ better, you philistine!”

“It was literally the most painful day of my _life_.”

Stiles slips his ring off at tosses it at Scott. It bounces off his nose. “That’s it, I’m done dating forever! Romance is dead, no one can be trusted.”

Scott laughs, elated by Stiles’ presence and the knowledge that it will always be there for him. _Through thick and thin, til death do us part._ He grins and pounces on him with a hug, sending them both back into the dirt, laughing and trying to out-tickle the other.

-

**october, 2011.**

“That’s the ugliest fucking tattoo I’ve ever seen,” says Derek.

“Smoking will kill you,” says Scott.

Derek lifts the cigarette from his mouth and exhales a slow stream of smoke. He flicks it to the ground and crushes it under his boot.

Scott coughs, pulls his jacket on and zips it up. “Seriously, I can send you some links to research on the health effects of smoking.”

“You don’t have my e-mail.”

“Do you even _have_ an e-mail? Tell the truth, you’re never actually texting anyone on your phone, you’re just playing the snake game, aren’t you?”

Derek bares his teeth in a grin. “You’re different.”

“It’s been a formative summer,” says Scott. He sets his helmet against his leg and slings his book bag over a shoulder. “How’s Cora?”

“Cora’s fantastic,” says Cora, breezing past Scott to climb into her brother’s car. “Stop smoking in front of high schoolers, you’re going to lure them to a life of delinquency.”

Derek says, “Spell delinquency.”

Cora sticks her tongue out. Derek sticks his out back.

“Are you really going to South America next semester?” asks Scott, too deeply disturbed by this display of regular human emotion from Derek to even process it.

“Yup. I’ll send you a postcard.” She winks and waves through the rolled down window as Derek settles in the driver’s seat, revs the engine a couple times, and tears out of the parking lot.

“Whoa,” says Kira, fiddling with the ends of her backpack straps.

Scott laughs. “Yeah, the Hales are kind of intense. Just be glad you haven’t met the oldest sister, she’s like a Terminator.” He shudders for effect and it earns him an adorable laugh. He beams. “Can I give you a ride?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I mean, no, no thanks. My dad--” her smile dims into a badly concealed cringe “--uh, he, he and I--”

“That’s so cool!” says Scott, maybe a little too enthusiastic, but he wants to lift that sweet smile back to her face. New kid, new town. Scott’s kept a comfortable, casual, distant sort of acquaintanceship up with her. He’s shared his notes, laughed at her snarky comments. He knows she’s shy, sweet, and babbles. He knows what it’s like to be afraid of saying the wrong thing, and wants her to know she can’t do that in front of him.

“Really?” Her eyebrows tick up.

“Yeah, I mean, Mr. Yukimura is an awesome teacher. And carpooling is great. You just waiting for him, then?”

She nods, smile already forming. “I mean, it can be really embarrassing, sometimes, having your dad as one of your teachers. Not that he’s embarrassing! Well. He can be, but--sometimes it’s weird, or at least other people think so.”

“Well,” says Scott, “I don’t think so.” He straddles his bike, snaps his helmet on. “Hey, are you doing anything this Saturday? My friend Stiles and I are having a study session, and after we’ll probably play some video games, maybe order pizza?”

“Oh.” Kira tucks some hair behind her ear, shuffles her books in her arms to pull out her cell. “Yeah, that--totally! Here, let me,” and she programs his number into her phone, grinning widely. Scott finds he can’t stop matching her smile.

“Sweet. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, he kicks away from the curb and down the street, Kira’s sparkling eyes and tiny wave knocking his heart into overdrive.

-

**january, 2012.**

Scott laughs at his phone, a text from Kira. They have a study date later, and she is a master at chemical compound puns. He punches the doorbell, drops a bundle of papers on the welcome mat, but distraction, and his general clumsiness, cause him to stub his toe on a massive vase. He’s hopping on one foot, eyes watering a little in pain, when the Hale house front door swings open.

“Is one of you dating my sister again?” Derek asks, frowning and folding his arms across his chest.

Scott restrains his eye roll and laughs, pleased that _ScottandStiles_ continues to be inseparable in the minds of others. “No, just here to drop off notes from history class for Cora.” Derek’s brows furrow. “Y’know, she had to skip. Because of her dentist appointment.” That, judging by Derek’s face, Scott realizes was a lie.

Derek uncrosses his arms and storms up the stairs.

“So… I’ll just… leave, then?” Scott has long ago accepted Hale weirdness is most of the time, better left ignored. As he turns to leave, however, he runs smack into the eldest of their pack.

“Scott,” she says, flashing a bright smile. Laura is the most outwardly friendly of the Hales, and yet still undoubtedly the most terrifying. Her arms drip with reusable shopping bags and her face is perfect, from her lipstick to her irises.

“Uh, hi!”

“The next time my younger sister tries to rope you into her derelict schemes, be smart and say no.” Scott stammers without sound for a moment, and a dark brow lifts on Laura’s expressionless face. “Ah. You didn’t know. No, that seems more plausible. Well, have a nice day. If you’ll excuse me, family matters.”

Scott nods and darts out of her way. He doesn’t like giving credence to Stiles’ theories often, but sometimes, he swears, there is something about the Hales that give him goosebumps.

-

**june, 2012.**

Kira cries into his shoulder, Scott cries into hers. His broken heart says, _kiss her, hug her, love, love, love her._

“Why don’t we get married? Move to Peru?”

Kira laughs, sniffly and cracking. “Scott.”

“I love you so much, okay?”

Her breath hitches, sticking wetly in the back of her throat. She clutches at him harder. “This _sucks_,” she laments. “I love you, too.”

“We were good, right?” he asks, trying to memorize the feel of her, the delicate scent of her shampoo.

“We were great. So cute. Gross, really, if Stiles can be trusted.” Scott laughs, now, just as choked up. “If we’re--if in few years, after we graduate, maybe…”

“Yeah?” He pulls back enough to look at her through wet lashes, their foreheads resting together. “Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Maybe, then.” He kisses her, once, soft, letting her control the pressure and length of it. She pushes against him, hands rising for a moment to cup his face in her palms.

Then, it’s over. Kira blinks at him, offering a watery smile. He matches it bravely, squeezing her hands in his. He watches her walk all the way to her car, where her mother wraps her in a hug and finishes packing in the last of her luggage. Mr. Yukimura waves at Scott from the front seat, with a sympathetic smile. Kira doesn’t look back, head turned away when the door slams shut. Their car rumbles and drives away, down the street and to the airport. In six hours Kira will be in New York, and Scott will be in Beacon Hills, and that night, though he knows they’re staring at the same moon, he’ll swear the sky has dimmed without her.

-

**september, 2012.**

Stiles slings an arm around Scott’s shoulder, dragging him in close as they make their way up the steps for the first time of their last year. “This year, buddy, it’s just gonna be us. No distractions, no heartbreak, no worries. We’re seniors! We’re invincible gods amongst men, here to rule and conquer!”

“Your fly is down, Stilinsko,” says Lydia Martin, as she passes them by with effortless grace.

“Welp,” says Stiles, and Scott laughs for the first time since summer.

-

**december, 2012.**

Scott’s cheeks burn with cold. He huffs into his hands, grabs two cartons of chocolate mint ice cream and hurries out of the freezer section, shivering. Chocolate mint is Allison’s favorite and the night is, ostensibly, about celebrating the fact she’s going to study in freaking France come next fall. Scott scours the candy aisle for the sour gummies that Erica loves them and then hunts down family sized bags of doritos for Boyd and Stiles.

He’s deciding between snack cakes (chocolate or creme filled) when his phone buzzes with the group text:

** _Stiles: where r u??? erica’s got the scary munchies_ **

** _Stiles: she’s gonna eat my heart as an appetizer dude_ **

** _Erica: it’s true_ **

** _Boyd: confirmed_ **

He’s laughing at his phone when he looks up, freezes. At the end of the otherwise abandoned aisle is Derek Hale, staring pensively at rows and rows snack choices. Scott ducks around a corner on instinct, not sure why he doesn’t want to be seen. He peeks around for another glance.

The store is piping pop-y Christmas music through speakers and Derek’s head is beneath a decorative wall of red and silver wreaths. Scott is doing what he always does for Christmas: having a huge feast with his mom and Stiles and the Sheriff when he’s off shift. They swap stockings and wear floppy Santa hats and laugh at how awfully Stiles’ dad tries to sing carols after his second spiked eggnog. Stiles and Scott fall asleep on the couch after exhausting whatever new video game they got, in the warm glow of Scott’s Christmas tree. It’s predictable and perfect every year and it strikes him like ice, the realization of all Derek lost.

His breath is gone in a moment. He tries to imagine the holidays without his mom or Stiles, his friends, the cards in the mail from his grandparents. All of it, all of them, gone. And Derek’s dealt with it for years.

Scott wanders down an aisle, staring into the basket on his arm, a little sick from his own thoughts. He doesn’t want to pity Derek--not only because he’s fairly sure Derek would kill him if he ever thought Scott did. But still, though Scott’s never really confronted the rumors about what happened to the Hales, everyone knows one thing for certain: Derek and his sisters are the only surviving members. What a crushing, terrifyingly lonely feeling that must be. And terrifying loneliness, Scott is unfortunately intimately acquainted.

He’s checking out when he sees it, throwing it on the conveyor belt quickly before paying the cashier. He scours the dark parking for for what must be ten minutes, feeling like an idiot with his arms full of grocery bags, almost sure Derek’s gone before: there. His Camaro, dangerous even sitting still, blacker than the night sky above. Scott tucks the card--a goofy, generic holiday greeting with cartoon reindeer and penguins, signed _merry christmas, derek!_\--and the simple, sparkly snowflake ornament, against the windshield. His nose is cold, his fingertips have no feeling by the time he makes it back to Stiles’ Jeep, but he’s smiling as he shivers all the way home.

-

**may, 2013.**

“Hey.”

Scott looks up from his book and tries to hide his surprise. “Hey, Derek.”

Derek stands a few feet away from the table Scott has claimed in the library. He looks more at home in a library than Scott would have guessed, his posture natural, easy and comfortable. Though he still dresses like he’s ready to understudy for the role of Danny Zuko at the drop of a hat.

“Heard you’re salutatorian for your graduating class, congrats.”

Scott grins and matches Derek’s hushed volume. “Thanks.” Lydia was some tough competition, but, weirdly, their rivalry turned into a study group that has now exceeded any common sense studying. And now that the edge of competition is totally removed they mostly just text about fashion and politics for fun.

Derek smiles, a little, something crooked and strange and knowing. A secretive and infuriating kind of smile. He says, “See you around Scott,” and Scott watches him rejoin his girlfriend, Braeden, and catches a flash of a softer, gentler smile--something more real--before they turn a corner, gone.

Scott grins to himself and refocuses on the edits of his graduation speech.

-

**november, 2013.**

The wind bites at his cheeks and eyes. His bike rolls sadly alongside him, crunching the iced dirt and leaves. He feels the engine before he hears it, a gentle hum in the soles of his shoes that rumbles louder and louder. It cuts to an idle suddenly and he glances over, expecting a creepy mustachioed axe-murderer, maybe, or just a mom in a minivan, and stops in shock at the sight of Derek Hale leaning over his console to talk through the open passenger window.

“You need a ride?”

Scott’s bicycle bumps against his leg as he stops, stooping his neck to look Derek in the eye. “You’re back in town?” he asks, surprised. Derek and Braeden’s European backpacking trip was supposed to last well into December, last Scott can remember.

“She fell in love with a fisherman. Are you getting in or what?”

Scott chews at his bottom lip, considers the ten mile trek down a cold, lonely highway with his bike squeaking beside him, and the warm, dark leather interior of Derek’s rumbling Camaro. He sighs. “Can you pop the trunk? For my bike?”

Derek slides his sunglasses to the tip of his nose. He looks at the bike, looks at Scott, and raises his eyebrows.

Scott glances at the trunk and wilts. “Okay, give me a minute to stash it. What was the last mile marker you passed?” Scott drapes some long, leafy branches over the handlebars that stick out of the green hiding place and says a quick, silent prayer for his bike to be there in the morning when he can bug Stiles to swing him around.

Derek’s glasses are firmly over his eyes when Scott makes it back to the car. Scott takes a moment to appreciate that Derek’s European escapades haven’t made him any less of a douche, and climbs in the passenger seat. He's instantly enveloped in the thick smell of cigarettes and spearmint, coughing into his sleeve. Derek rolls up the windows, cranks the heater, and looks at him sideways, hands hesitating on the steering wheel.

Scott waves away the concern, shivering in the sudden warmth. He sinks a little into the soft leather seats. “It’s fine,” he says, which isn’t even a very good lie, but he’s not going to be ungrateful while accepting a kindly offered ride from Derek, even if the words break apart over another coughing fit. Scott clears his throat, gives his best smile. Derek snorts. “So is Braeden really dating a fisherman?”

“No. Counselor.” Derek smirks, something borderline sinister with the shadows playing across his face, the black glasses obfuscating his eyes. “Morrell.”

Scott blanches. “_Ms. Morrell_?” Ew. He twists his mouth, weirded out and guilty for it. Ms. Morrell was a great counselor and she should totally date who she wants. But Braeden is sort of a friend--or at least she orbits close enough to his friend circle that it’s weird to think of her dating his high school French teacher and guidance counselor. His head spins. He says, “That’s… good. For them. That’s great.”

Derek chuckles. It’s never a nice sound, his laugh. It’s always too lofty, laced with something that says: _you’re the joke._ Scott squirms and tugs his seat belt over his chest, trying to remind himself that he is an adult in college and he has no reason to be intimidated by Derek Hale.

The engine revs, Derek shifts into drive, and they pull away from the edge of the road.

“So what about you?”

“What about me?” asks Derek.

Scott says, “How was Europe? How’s it being back home? You know, just, life.”

Derek gives him another sidelong look, this one even more intense--his face really shouldn’t be able to convey so much _brood_ while being so blank. Scott’s weighing the pros and cons of telling Derek to _please look back at the road_ when he turns his face away, saying, “Europe was boring. We mostly ate and overpaid on hotels. The museums were nice, though.” He shrugs, not awkward or unsure, but smooth, an elegant pull of his shoulders. “Home is home.”

An uncomfortable silence drags between them. Scott watches the windshield eat the yellow lane lines, wondering if he should try to start another round of small talk, but with something simpler than _how are you_, like maybe the weather.

“Uh, what about you? You’re in… college?”

Scott nearly laughs. “Yeah, Derek. You were actually there when I graduated with Cora, remember?” Derek grunts. “Well, anyway,” he rolls his eyes around a smile, coughs into his sleeve, “it’s great.”

“You’re a… um. Soph…”

“Freshman.”

“Right. And your other friends… the weird one and Allison? They’re going to the same school?”

“Allison’s studying criminal justice with Stiles, Malia’s doing community college first and then she’s going to our school.”

“Huh.”

Scott does laugh, now, unable to help it. “How are you so out of the loop, dude? Cora went to South America for longer than you’ve been out of the country and when she came back she knew more gossip than I did.”

“Amazingly, I don’t have the same time or inclination of a teenage girl to keep up with local gossip.”

“Too bad,” says Scott, grinning. “You’d be way cooler if you did.” He pauses. “Because your sister’s so cool.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Like. _Way_ cooler than you.”

“Yes, okay, thank you. I understand.” Derek’s mouth twitches, undercutting his acidic tone.

Scott’s grin broadens, and he needles further, “Are you sure? I can keep going.”

“Jesus. Fine, what _is_ the gossip?”

“I knew it!” Scott claps his hands. “All you Hales are gossip fiends. Not even you can pretend.”

Derek groans, brow wrinkling. “You just--_goaded_ me, I--Oh, fuck you.”

“Aw, come on,” says Scott. “I’m sorry, okay. Uh. Malia and Kira are together, even though it’s long distance they’re really making it work.”

“I’m not that terrible, I keep up with my own family, thank you.”

“Fine, fine. Allison beat up a guy that tried to mug Lydia. Kira finally got her dyslexia diagnosed so she can get her classes accommodated. Lydia’s flying out to Boston, I think, for some get together conference math… thing. Stiles tried to eat fifty hot wings in one sitting because Erica said he couldn’t and got food poisoning for a whole week, so if you’re out to dinner with him you have to buy hot wings, that’s the new rule. Um… Malia got glasses, not sure if you saw that one.”

“I do have Facebook,” says Derek.

Scott blinks at him. “Oh, wow. Sorry, I didn’t think. Hey, I’ll friend you!”

“Why? We’re not friends.”

“Oh,” says Scott, trying his best not to feel hurt and failing, miserably. He wasn’t under any sort of delusions, but he thought Derek and he were friendly, at least.

“I’m fucking with you, jeez.” Derek laughs. It prickles Scott’s skin in that particular iring way it has.

“That’s kinda mean, Derek.” Scott’s words hang for a minute. Then, Derek clears his throat, hands flexing on the steering wheel. “I mean, it’s--” Embarrassment rushes up his throat, warming his cheeks. “Sorry, it’s not, I’m being--over sensitive, or something.”

“You’re not, I’m a dick. I forget not everyone is, as Laura would say.”

“Sorry.” Scott swallows, looking down at his hands, a tickle building in his throat.

Derek’s head turns again; it’s dead on the road, they haven’t passed a single car, but he really should stop doing that. “Christ, for what?”

Scott winces. “Sorry, _shit_. I just--so--fuck. It’s not you. I’m.” _Sorry._ Fuck, he is pathetic. “It’s been a long night.”

Then, Derek bursts out laughing. Not his superiority chuckle, derisive laugh. This is full and warm and rough, snorting at the end. “_Freshman_. You’re freaking out.”

“I’m--I’m not.”

“You are. Don’t worry, you’ll get through it.”

Scott opens his mouth to retort, but all the words dry up. He has been freaking out. Thanksgiving break was great, but now December’s on its way, along with his first college finals, and the classes are challenging and he’s terrified and what if he fucks everything up, all of it, what if he doesn’t graduate or get a job or do anything or go anywhere and what if--

“I’m not freaking out.”

Derek _hmm’s_ doubtfully. “You’re wound up tighter than a piano wire. You really should get laid.”

Scott huffs a small laugh. College was not the exciting dating experience the movies promised, though to be fair he’d only been in it a few months. Still, he couldn’t imagine finding time for _another_ thing on top of all the stress. “Unless you’re offering, I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anytime soon.”

Derek’s quiet for a beat. “And if I was offering?”

“What?” asks Scott, grinning in disbelief. Derek glances at him calmly--serious. “What,” Scott repeats, flatter.

The Camaro rolls to a slow stop. Derek says, “If I was offering, what would you say?”

Scott licks his lips. Derek’s hot, he knows this; but it’s always been a peripheral acknowledgement. He’s also _Derek_, older and wiser and cooler than Scott and his high school friends. But… he’s not in high school anymore.

Derek’s hands are curled around the steering wheel, his eyes steadily meeting Scott’s. Scott can feel the fork in the road of his silence. Say no and Derek will drive him home, simple as that. Say yes--well. Nothing simple lies down that path.

“I don’t know,” says Scott, slowly. “Can’t answer a hypothetical like that.”

“Okay,” says Derek. He unbuckles both of their seat belts and places one warm hand on the side of Scott’s face, guiding him close, making him lean over the console. “I’m offering.”

Maybe Scott could stand to get laid. Maybe there could be something here. Maybe he’s entitled to one awful decision per year of college. Maybe he’s having a hard time coming up with reasons not to when Derek’s mouth is so close and waiting.

“Okay,” says Scott.

Derek closes the distance for a kiss, fast, open-mouthed and reaching his other hand out for Scott’s jacket. He tastes disgusting but Scott can almost forget it entirely, lost in his skilled tongue and fingers. He drags him in closer until Scott’s climbing into his lap, awkwardly bumping the wheel and gear shift and Derek’s knees. What a great fucking idea, though, because now Scott’s got the height to angle the kiss, tug Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth and touch all that hard muscle that’s pressed against him, chest to chest. Derek’s thighs are spread and firm under the denim of his jeans, his way past five o’clock shadow scrubs Scott’s neck raw from where he’s kissing, sucking, biting at Scott’s skin like he’s fucking dessert.

Scott’s breath hitches, his throat itches, but he pushes away the urge to cough again. He circles his hips down, rubbing mindlessly, desperately against Derek, an inferno growing in the pit of his stomach. The car fills with their friction, shared breaths, heat building between them. Scott buries his face in Derek’s shoulder when Derek’s fingers carry themselves along the seam of his inner thigh. The leather is thick with cigarettes. He winces, picks his head up and knocks it against the roof instead.

It doesn’t help much. The smoke is so heavy in his lungs, his throat. It’s like breathing in broken glass and now his anxieties trickle in, making his chest hitch quicker.

Derek reaches for his pants’ button, says, “What do you want?”

Scott wants to breathe, but he can’t, he can’t, oh shit. He wheezes and scrambles his hands desperately at the door until it pops open and he can fall out into the cool air of the night, frantically digging his inhaler out of his pocket.

“Shit.” Derek's hand hesitates over Scott's shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Scott puts his finger up, counts down from ten in his head, and slowly exhales from his inhaler. He tests a few gulps of the cold, clear air and slumps back against the car. “Fine,” he croaks.

Derek sits down next to him and pulls out a lighter.

“Seriously? Now?”

“I'm not going to light up, Jesus.” Derek flicks the lighter on and off. The snick of the metal and flame is oddly calming with the too silent woods surrounding them completely.

Scott licks his lips and grimaces. “Do you have any gum?”

Derek tosses him a couple sticks. Scott unwraps them and shoves the thin pieces in his mouth. The flavor bursts over his acrid tongue, and his nose and mouth fill with the terrible combination of cigarettes and sweet mint until, slowly, the gum starts to overpower everything else. He balls up the foil wrappers and shoves them in his pocket.

“You really should quit,” says Scott. Derek barks a laugh. “Not for me! For your own health. I don't want to know what your lungs look like.”

“You must think I'm nuts.” The lighter sparks, the cap shuts like a coffin. Again, again. Light, snuff. “Guy whose whole family burned up playing with fire.”

Scott leans back fully against the car, head thudding against the door. Okay, so, they’re going there. For the years Scott has known Derek--any and all of the Hales, for that matter--he has never once discussed the fire with them. It was impossible not to think about it, not when it was so public. The whole town knew; only three of a family that big to survive such a violent, vicious attack. There were whispers and gossip and rumours for years afterward, but all Scott’s mom would tell him is that the Hales suffered in a way no family should, and he was too soft-hearted to ever want to know more. And here it was: the giant gorilla that hung off Derek’s back actually being acknowledged.

He takes a breath.

“I was attacked in the woods when I was fifteen. Could've sworn it was a wolf, but they don't live out here, so the ranger was never sure. It was bad, I thought… after, before anyone found me, I really thought I was going to die out there. But I still find the woods the most peaceful place in the world, especially at night. Healing is a weird process.” He blows a small bubble and snaps it. “And you didn't lose your whole family,” he reminds, gently.

“It was Kate Argent.”

Scott jerks forward, gaze tearing away from the sky to Derek. “What?”

“My ex. Her dad and my mom had this old beef. He got her to date me and kill all of us. Except she missed a third of us. Shitty girlfriend, shitty murderer.” Asphalt and acquaintances are good for exercising some demons, but damn. Scott is not prepared for the weight of this knowledge.

Scott's head spins and he tries to rally his thoughts. “That's why she's in jail?” Allison had mentioned it only once before, clearly uncomfortable with the topic so Scott hadn't pushed. “Oh my God. That's--terrible. Derek, that's terrible. Wait, why didn't her father get arrested too?”

“They couldn't prove it.” Derek shrugs, eyes flat and colorless under the moonlight. The lighter sits cold and closed in the fist of his hand. “Kate never implicated him and since he didn't physically partake in the crime…”

“Mierda.”

“Yeah,” says Derek, quietly. “Hey, sorry I gave you an asthma attack.”

“It's all right,” says Scott, still slightly shell shocked.

Derek reaches for him with one hand, guiding his mouth up to meet his own in a soft, short kiss. Derek licks the seam of Scott's lips and twists his fingers in Scott's hair for a moment. “Come on,” he says, standing in one smooth movement. “Let's get you home.” He holds his hand out for Scott, and Scott accepts.

-

**december, 2013.**

_Come over_

Scott’s hands burn around his phone. Needles prickle his palms. He’s been gripping it so tight for so long, staring at the message. The needling sensation washes through his body at the all the possibilities the text might contain.

He considers the situation. Derek: smoker, brother of his best friend’s ex-girlfriend, scorchingly good kisser, bit of a mess, bit of a jerk, very close to fucking Scott a few weeks ago in the front seat of his car. Derek had programmed his number into Scott’s phone before dropping him off, but Scott didn’t hear from him again. After a week, with the holidays and break and tests, the sting faded and Scott moved on with his life. He wasn’t the first person to have an ill-advised make-out session, he wouldn’t be the last. But now: this.

_Come over_

Scott: a good student, standing in the candle store of the mall for some early Christmas shopping, has not kissed anyone since his bike tire went flat, trying to find the superior scent between ‘Mountain Lodge’ and ‘Cinnamon Fire’, an unsubtle offer to finish what he and Derek started clutched in his hands.

“Sir,” an employee asks, smiling. “Can I help you find something?”

“Uh.” He blinks. “No, sorry, just looking. Thanks.” She nods and leaves with another patented retail-worker-during-the-holidays smile.

The situation: Derek, rude and hot, Scott, celibate since his break-up with Kira and tempted. He sniffs ‘Cinnamon Fire’ again and tries his best not to balk at the price tag before bringing it up to the check-out.

He clips his helmet on, purchase tucked snuggly in his book bag, and taps his fingers against the handle of his bike. Should he text back? Should he bring condoms? Surely the expectation of protection is on the summoner. Should he search drugstores nearby Derek’s place in case they need to make a quick store run? He’s out of time, no more deliberating. Derek’s building is huge and industrial from the outside and he knows it’s no more cozy indoors.

Oh, God. Oh, _God_. Is he really doing this? He can’t be. It’s too weird, it’s--_Derek_.

The elevator pings, doors sliding open. Scott’s heart races but he can’t call it fear.

Derek opens the door on the first knock. He raises an eyebrow. “Were you baking?”

“It’s a candle. For my mom. For Christmas.” Scott tightens his hands around his bags straps, defensive for no real reason. It would be a great surprise on the bottom of her stocking, beneath the usual candies and hair ties and other small gifts.

“Hmm,” he says, eyes glazing over Scott, head to toe. “You never called.”

Shit, _Scott_ was supposed to be the one to call? He is so bad at this. “I’m bad at this.”

“Not from what I remember.”

Oh jeez. “I like you,” he says, because honesty’s never failed him before.

Derek’s eyes pinch at the corners. “You’re a nice guy, Scott. But… this isn’t a date.”

Scott’s brows tick up; he’s not _oblivious_, he knows what’s happening between them. “Yeah. I know. But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you. Do you like me?” he asks, feeling bold for it, but he won’t be intimidated by Derek’s soft condescension.

Derek licks his lips, eyeing him. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“Neither am I.”

“Okay. Yeah, I do.”

“Do you have condoms?”

Derek laughs, sharp edged and a little mean. It reminds Scott of his hands, hot and hard around Scott’s waist, dragging him over the console and in close.

“Yeah,” he says, finally stepping back for Scott to move inside the loft. He shuts the door and kisses Scott, fast, hands already roaming, grabbing at Scott in greedy handfuls. He tastes kinda like mouthwash, kinda like soda. Scott drops his bag on the floor, considerate of the glass jarred candle, and hooks his arms around the back of Derek’s neck, hopping up when Derek’s hands find his ass and lift. Derek walks them to the bed and lays Scott out.

-

Derek doesn’t bother requesting, after. Just texts a time and a question mark. _Tonight, 8?_ or _Tomorrow, what time does your lecture end?_ or _Now_.

Scott responds, yes or no, and so it is. Always Derek’s loft, always fast, a little rough, Scott with his hands fisting in Derek’s hair or clutching Derek’s sheets or raking down Derek’s back. Scott hasn’t had so much sex in his life and it is in turn strange and fucking fantastic.

“You need food,” says Scott, buttoning up his shirt. He rummages around in Derek’s pantry. “Are you actively trying to get high cholesterol?” He shoves aside the packages of chips and spongy, plastic wrapped cakes.

“Picky,” Derek tuts. “Aren’t college students supposed to eat Ramen all the time?”

“Sorry for caring about my health.”

“If you’re so hungry, you could suck my dick.”

Scott slams the pantry shut, torn between laughing and letting his anger flare. “It wouldn’t kill you to buy a piece of fruit, is all I’m saying.”

“Aw, Scott,” Derek flashes a grin, bright and mocking. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I just don’t want you to die while you’re on top of me,” says Scott, padding out of the kitchen and back towards the bed, where Derek is laid out, naked and sated.

“Don’t worry, I’d roll us over if I felt a heart attack coming on.”

“Right, I forgot. Someone in your advanced age already knows the warning signs.” Scott shakes his head in relief. “_Phew_.”

Derek narrows his eyes, fighting a grin. “You’re a little shit.”

Scott smiles and crawls between the vee of Derek’s legs. He takes Derek into his hand, stroking slow and firm, says, “It’s not nice to insult someone who’s about to get you off again.” He kisses Derek, twisting his wrist the way he likes--then freezes. He pulls back, frowning.

“Did you just smoke?” His mouth tastes like an ashtray, there’s no way for Derek to deny it.

“No.”

Scott slips off the bed, shoves on his pants and shoes.

“Fuck, come on. It was just one. Scott.” Derek leans forward, reaching. “I opened the window! You can’t even smell it, Christ.”

“You said,” Scott points at him one-handed while shoving his foot into a sneaker, “you promised. When I’m here, no smoking. Don’t do this again.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t, but--c’mon. You’re not just going to leave.”

Scott looks at him, sinful and wanting on the sheets, and buttons the bottom button of his shirt. “Suck your own dick or don’t smoke when I’m here. I’ve got full days till the end of the week, so don’t text me until then, either.” He grabs his bag and starts for the door. “And buy an orange before you get scurvy, seriously.”

-

Derek has a bowl of orange candies on the counter the next Saturday. He hasn’t decorated at all for Christmas. At this point, Scott isn’t even sure if he celebrates anything ever.

“I have the urge to warn you about dentists but I’m afraid you’ll give yourself a cavity just to spite me if I do.”

Derek looks up at him, unimpressed, mouth red and slick and pouty. “I kinda thought I was giving you different sorts of urges.”

-

Casual sex. Scott can do this. Seriously. Despite what some people may say, Scott can do this--it’s not like it’s rocket science or something. Lydia has it, is often complaining about her hook-ups not understanding what “not looking for a relationship” means. But Scott understands, and it’s crystal clear what Derek wants.

People do this. Scott can do it to, it’s totally fine.

“What’s wrong?” Kira asks, immediately, as she sits across from him in the restaurant she chose for their pre-movie meal. No matter how long they’re apart, they fall into the same rhythm like she’s not just visiting home for the holidays, like she never left at all.

Scott gapes, and lies very badly, “No--nothing. Nothing’s wrong. What’s wrong with you?”

Kira squints. Scott closes his mouth, picks at the corner of the menu. Kira’s eyes soften, she reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Seriously, Scott, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

He’s putty to that soft, encouraging smile. “I have a sort of… friends with benefits thing going on with someone.”

“Oh,” she says. “Someone I know?” Scott hesitates. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say. So… do you _want_ a casual relationship with them?”

“Yes,” he answers, easy. He really, _really_ does. That’s not the problem. “But it just… I’ve never been this person. I… well,” he chews at his bottom lip a little, ducking his head. “You remember. I’m usually all in, with my heart. But with this, it’s good just as it is, but…”

“But you don’t think it should be working as well as it is,” says Kira, sharp eyes searching his face.

He nods, slumping back in the booth. “I’ve only ever had sex with people I’ve loved, before. And it’s just--weird. That that isn’t there.”

“Maybe it’s just something you have to get over. The weirdness might fade.” She shrugs. “But if it persists, I’d reconsider other parts of this relationship. If it doesn’t feel right, end it. Trust yourself, Scott.”

Scott nods, and, eager to drop the subject, says, “Thanks. Okay, so, you want to split the fajitas, right?”

Kira gives him a _duh_ look, but squeezes his hand softly and smiles, before they move on to speculating about the movie and how many scenes that one actor with the cute butt will be strategically shirtless in.

-

**january, 2014.**

Braeden is sitting on Derek’s couch, eating spoonfuls of cereal, the first time Scott lets himself in.

“Uh,” he says.

“Hey,” she says, waving him in. “Derek’s not here.”

Scott frowns, thinking of the text he received. _Come over? I’m running some errands but the door should be unlocked._

“Were you two… meeting?” Her voice is full of innuendo, eyebrows climbing high.

Scott blushes, ducks his head trying to hide it. “Yeah, but I can come back--”

“No, no, don’t worry about me. Marin’s apartment got flooded so she’s staying at her brother’s, I’m crashing here for a few days. But I can make myself scarce when Derek gets back.”

Scott nods, then hovers awkwardly. Braeden laughs and pats the open couch space next to her. He settles next to her and grabs the box of cereal off the coffee table, scooping a handful.

“Derek doesn’t let anyone eat on the couch,” he says, just to say something, as housewives of someplace scream at each other on the television screen.

Braeden snorts. “I know, which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t have a problem about crumbs in bed.”

Scott nods fiercely, still chewing as he bursts out, “I know! It’s weird, right?” Braeden raises her spoon in solidarity. “And have you ever actually seen a vegetable in his fridge? Like, ever?”

Braeden says, “I think he just lives off saltines. He has a bunker of them and he eats them alone in the dark when no one’s watching.” Scott coughs and chokes on cereal dust, laughing. “Hey, so how’s school going for you?” She groans a little, face pinching. “Oh, God, I feel old. I remember how much I hated that question.”

“It’s, uh, I mean… yeah.” They burst out with laughter of the commiserating kind. “No, really, you know,” Scott shrugs. “Terrifying but good. How’s Ms. Morrell? I haven’t really seen her since I graduated.”

Braeden smirks. “It’s so weird to hear you call her that. But she’s great. Secretly I think she’s thrilled her place flooded--it gives her the perfect opportunity to grill Alan about his dating life, with no escape for him.”

Scott grins at the image of his boss trying to dance around romance inquiries from his steely-eyed sister. “God help him.”

They clink cereal bowl to cereal box and glue their eyes to the TV, just as a wife starts to take out her earrings in indication that shit is about to get real.

-

**february, 2014.**

Things are, strangely, smooth. It turns out, regular, fantastic sex really does help release the stress of school and his job. Derek’s place is almost a reprieve from real life; a place where everything else falls away, and Scott can simply feel and be in his body for a while.

And while he doesn’t hide it, exactly (Kira knows, though she doesn’t know who, which led to Malia knowing because it wasn’t a secret and they’re closer than ever, these days; Lydia knows because she read the signs of sex on him immediately, and reminded him to use protection; and Allison knows, because she was standing next to Lydia when she announced, “Well, it’s about time, Scott. I thought one of us was going to have to fuck you to get you to relax for a minute.”), he’s not comfortable posting online that things between him and Derek Hale are “complicated”--especially when that’s the opposite of what they are.

Still, uncharted waters they may be for him, he’s certainly not ashamed of anything. And so, it’s easy to forget himself.

Scott and Stiles are sprawled across the floor and each other, rewatching _Buffy_ and eating as many carbs as they can shovel into their mouths at once. Scott groans after finishing his fifth slice of pizza and belches loudly.

Stiles claps twice. “Eight point five.”

“Fuck off!” Scott laughs. “That was a solid nine.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and burps a shockwave. “_That’s_ what a nine sounds like.”

Scott throws an empty box of Captain Crunch at his head, which bounces onto the floor and spreads cereal dust all over the carpet.

“Gross! You’re vacuuming that up, you mongrel.”

“We just had a burping contest and I’m gross? Which one of us invented sugar pizza, anyway?”

Stiles shakes a finger and pauses Buffy just as she’s about to kick someone’s lights out, because now they’re getting into it, and it’s too fun to not focus attention on. His grin curls with devilish glee in the glow of the TV. “Okay, one, I have never heard you complain about my genius invention, let’s just be clear here: I deserve a peace prize for sugar pizza, it’s amazing.” Scott puts his hands up amicably, because, true. “Second, burps are beautiful and natural and I’m great at them, but, third, cereal on the carpet is gross and this is why you’d be a terrible husband.”

“Hey!”

“It’s the truth, buddy! You are slovenly and single, and do not think that is pure coincidence.”

Scott rolls his eyes and he can feel the argument's organic arc. He knows next he’ll jump into the vein of _Stiles your bedroom is like a hurricane, Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find the bottom of your floor._ But it all sticks in his throat, suddenly, because if he carries on normally, lets slide that one small comment, it feels like lying, in some way. And Stiles… it’s Stiles. He hasn’t told anyone yet, really, but he suddenly really, really wants Stiles to know, wants to talk about it with him in detail because, well, it’s _Stiles_. He’s always the one Scott wants to obsess over something with, whether it’s his haircut or the Star Trek reboot or crushes.

“Um,” says Scott, looking away now. Buffy’s face is frozen on the screen and he tries to channel some of her strength. “I’m not actually, uh, exactly single.”

Stiles eyebrows make a break for the sky. “_What?_ Bro. What, wait, who? When? _Who?_”

“Um… nobody at school, or anything. Just a guy. Y’know. Around town.” Scott winces.

Stiles’ gaze narrows to thin slits, but he lets the evasion slide. For now. “How long have you been dating?”

“Um…” Scott chews his bottom lip for a moment. “That’s the thing, we’re not… we’re not really dating. It’s more a… friends-with-benefits?” Scott peeks a look at Stiles, bangs falling into his eyes slightly. “Type thing? Kind of? Honestly, there’s not a lot of the friend part but there have been, uh, a lot of benefits.” A small laugh cracks in his throat and his cheeks warm, he’s suddenly grateful to be mostly cloaked in shadow.

“You?” Stiles laughs, the sound punched out of him. “Scotty, c’mon. You’re all heart. That’ll never last.”

“It could,” Scott protests. “We’re totally up front about what we want.”

“And how long will it work out before heartbreak?”

“It won’t--that’s not gonna happen. No one has to get hurt.” Scott’s trying not to feel too defensive, but it’s proving difficult with Stiles’ interrogatory tone.

“Yeah,” Stiles doesn’t even try to hold back his eye roll. “But in this scenario, if anyone did--and they will--it’d be you--and it _will_. You’re--and I mean this as a compliment, seriously--but you’re soft, Scott. You’re a marshmallow.” He cups Scott’s shoulders with his hands, squeezing. “That’s a good thing! That’s who you are, and it’s great, but it’s not going to sustain an emotionless relationship.”

It’s not _emotionless_, Scott wants to say. There are plenty of emotions involved. But they’re raw, scalding things. Scott can’t find words for them--all he knows is the way they flame under his skin when Derek touches him.

“Maybe,” Scott shrugs, mouth set. Stiles sighs at him, but takes the hint, and drops it. Then, with totally imperfect timing, Scott’s phone buzzes with a flurry of texts. He glances at the screen and his face must give him away instantly.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Booty call?”

Scott gives a half-shrug, doesn’t deny it. “I’ll just text him back no.”

“No, hey, don’t let me get in the way of your fun times. Seriously, what were we going to do? Watch more Buffy, play video games and nap on the couch?”

“Um, yeah. Sounds like the perfect day to me.” Scott knocks their shoulders together, teasing a smile out of Stiles.

“Yeah, yeah. But c’mon, I might not think this is the best thing in the world for you, but if it works it works.”

“You’re a good bro,” says Scott, sincerely.

Stiles beams. “I know.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

Stiles tugs him into a half-hug, then shoves him off the couch. “I don’t mind, dude, get that ass moving. You getting laid on the regular means more cute and available ladies out there for me.”

Scott laughs, collecting his things and piling them in his bag. “Oh, well in that case, you’re welcome.”

-

**april, 2014.**

This is something sinful. Something too sweet, too good to be right. Scott doesn’t--can’t--care. It’s worth it. It’s so, so worth it.

“Shut the fuck up,” Derek laughs, snorting. He shoves at Scott, who moans theatrically, sucking sour cream off his thumb.

“I can’t believe you live down the street from the best taco truck ever and you never told me.” Scott takes another bite of his pulled pork soft taco and groans, mouth falling open in ecstasy.

Derek tosses a balled up napkin at him. “Because they only park there a couple times a week. Your timing’s just lucky.” Scott reaches across the bed to steal some of Derek’s guacamole and is shooed away. He gives up, and grabs the untouched red sauce instead, because Derek is a wimp. He drenches the last bite in it and promptly falls back against the sheets, probably having a heart attack of pure pleasure.

“Derek,” he says, slapping a hand against his full belly, humming happily. “That was like, top five some of the best carnitas I’ve ever tasted. Do you get that? I will come back here every Tuesday if you buy me more.”

Derek chokes on another laugh. “Buy your own goddamn tacos, you’re not that great in bed.”

Scott gasps in offense, but his face melts into another smile, too content to help it.

-

**may, 2014.**

“Dude, again? Seriously?”

Scott shrugs, grabbing his bag with an apologetic smile. “I can cancel, if you really want…” But he’s already edging towards the door, bag in hand, betraying how much he wants to go.

Stiles looks away and guilt tugs at Scott. “No. I mean, I’m cool with it. It’s cool.”

Scott hesitates. “Stiles,” he starts.

“No seriously, it’s fine. Go, go be with your mysterious boyfriend who I don’t know, whose _name_ I don’t even know. _Me_, your best friend on the entire planet and yes I know Allison can kick my ass and try to take my title but it’s still _ScottandStiles_, dude. I just--”

Stiles’ dorm is quiet and cold. It was filled with laughter and headache-y groans about school ten minutes ago, Scott pressed up against Stiles on his tiny twin mattress, watching some old movie for Stiles’ film theory class and making fun of the actors hairstyles. Stiles gets like this, when Derek interrupts them. He brushes it off with effort, doesn’t make Scott feel bad for leaving, but his insatiable curiosity can only be held at bay for so long, even for Scott. In all honesty, Scott’s surprised this all hasn’t come out sooner.

Stiles is frowning as he says, “I just don’t get why it’s a secret. We don’t do that. I didn’t think we did.”

“We don’t,” says Scott. “But I…” He tries to find the words. Derek is the eye of a storm. Scott’s life is stress and planning and accommodating everyone, everything around him. But Derek? The guilt tugs at him again for even thinking it but Derek is simple in a way even just being with Stiles isn’t. It’s a clean, clear interaction. Even with the emotional minefield of Derek’s past and the awkward beats between them, when they square up and look each other in the eye everything in the world falls away and it is only this, only them. It’s a respite from the world and Scott _knows_, he does know that it, like all good things, will end but he just doesn’t want it to end now.

Scott’s phone buzzes with another text. Derek is waiting outside to pick him up, take him to the loft.

“Is he an actual god in bed? Is that it? Because…” Stiles licks his lips, nervous or something close to it. He stands, walking toward Scott. “Because…”

_Buzz_. Scott glances down again.

“He’s not my boyfriend or a god, he just… I don’t know. It works, between us.”

“But I can’t know who he is? Is he a professor or some shit?”

Scott’s got his hand on the door as he laughs. “No, Stiles, jeez. And it’s just… I don’t know. It’s not serious, and he’s pretty private so I don’t… I don’t know, it’s just not…” It’s not for anybody else, he doesn’t say.

_Buzz_.

Stiles groans, making grabby hands. “That’s it--”

“Stiles, stop--” Scott fumbles, jerking away.

“Dude seriously, the cat has died eight times from curiosity just lemme--”

“Wait, don’t--”

They don’t-quite-wrestle for a second, Stiles ending up triumphant with Scott’s phone in his hand. Scott sucks in a breath in his last moment of anonymity. He can see what Stiles sees over his shoulder, his phone screen illuminated with his most recent texts.

_ **Derek: Everything okay?** _

_ **Derek: Can’t wait to get my hands on you.** _

_ **Derek: Here.** _

The silence is overwhelming. Suffocating. Stiles doesn’t turn around for a long, long moment and then, finally, when he does his face…

“Derek Hale? Derek fucking Hale? Are you kidding me--Scott, please tell me you are kidding!” Stiles is wild in his disbelief, flailing, moving across the room. Scott shrinks, just a little.

“Umm,” he says, because even if he could, he wouldn’t lie to Stiles. “He’s really kind of nice, when you get to know him.”

“What? _What_? What is the world? What is the _world_ I’m living in, Scotty, _Derek Hale?_” Scott’s phone buzzes. Stiles glances down and immediately gags, shoving the phone back into Scott’s hands. “Oh, ew, okay let’s agree I definitely did _not_ read that.”

Scott reads it quickly and feels himself flush. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, watching Stiles, concerned.

“Are you okay? Are… are we? Should we, I don’t know, talk about it?”

“Ugh, definitely not. No offense, but I want to know absolutely zero details about…” Stiles shivers dramatically. “_Hale_.”

Scott huffs a laugh, dragging Stiles in for a hug. “You’re such a drama llama. You’d like him if you--”

“Nope! No, not thinking about it. Just… Ugh, just be careful. Please. I guess I should be grateful that you haven’t been catfished or taken in by some predatory professor or dating a married cougar or something.”

“What,” Scott laughs again, pulling back. “Is that what you thought?”

“The mind wanders! Again, eight dead cats! It took all my effort not to start stalking your rendezvous, though, honestly this is only like one step above my worst case scenario.”

“Why? He’s really just a regular guy, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles looks away at that. “But you deserve more than just a regular guy, Scotty.”

Scott smiles, his heart warming to hear it. “I’ll call you later, bro.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles waves him out. “Have fun at your creepy sex loft.”

-

They don’t make it to the loft.

Scott hides his face in the crook of his elbow, sweaty, naked, blushing. “Oh, God, we’re going to jail.”

Derek, stretched on the hood of his car for a post-coital smoke, laughs. “You’re not going to jail,” he shouts.

Scott _should_, though, is the thing. God. When did he become the guy fucking in the backseat of a muscle car, because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, because he couldn’t stand not touching Derek for a second longer than he had to. He feels the pinnacle of debauchery, sticky skin sealing his body to the leather interior. His breath thick, wet, a pant. His knees tremble, still. Derek is shirtless, jeans snug and low on his hips. Cigarette dangling carelessly from the pout of his mouth, illuminated in the Camaro’s holy glowing headlights. His hair is a wreck from Scott’s hands. Tiny red scratches mark his shoulder blades, the beginning of a hickey blooming beneath his ear. Scott’s body hums at the sight, satisfied and utterly infatuated.

He sighs, and starts rummaging around for his clothes. Arms wriggling through his shirt holes, he plops down in the passenger seat and collects his shorts from their hiding spot under the dash. Derek glances at him through the windshield, and after a beat, motions Scott out of the car.

Scott rolls the window down, pops his head out.

“You don’t have to go,” says Derek.

Scott glances pointedly at the burning butt of Derek’s cigarette on the asphalt by his feet. It’s a firm indicator that round two is not in their future.

But Derek shakes his head. “I just mean… it’s ridiculous for me to immediately turn around and drive you back. You can stay the night, I don’t mind.”

Scott chews on his lip. He is tired, and, honestly, Derek’s water pressure amazing.

“Okay. Thanks, dude.” He jumps out of the Camaro, knocking shoulders with Derek. “But if any of your neighbors called the cops on us, I’m ratting you out.”

Derek lifts his eyes to the sky, fighting a smile.

-

“Damn,” says Scott. “Is it…” he chews the words, finds them distasteful, and turns away.

Derek’s doing something at the stove. It could, technically, be called cooking. His head cranes, neck folding as he half-turns. “What?”

Scott’s impulsive honesty forces him to answer. “I just… never really realized. How empty your apartment is.” He waves a hand to encompass the wide, open spaces. Derek has a couch, a TV on a small entertainment set, a bed, and a nightstand. His loft has more square footage than Scott’s childhood home, and yet. The massive space is a cave, echoing and bare.

More than furniture, though, the lack of personality strikes Scott. He’s never taken the time to look around, consider. Sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, spinning to take in the open floorplan of the place, he realizes that not only does Derek have very little, none of it says very much. No notes tacked to the fridge, no framed photos by his bed, no degree hung on the wall. The only personal touch is Derek’s DVR, which records exactly one thing: _Grey’s Anatomy._

Derek clangs and clambers around. A quiet curse; he yanks his hand away from the stove, sucking on the tip of his index finger. He turns completely to face Scott, eyebrows raised.

“What else do I need?”

Scott shrugs. The conversation is teetering close to actually _talking_ about _feelings_, two things he’s fairly confident Derek’s lethally allergic to. “Ping pong table?” he offers, slow to smirk as Derek considers this.

“You’re so… college,” says Derek.

Scott snorts. “Whatever, grandpa.”

Derek chokes, groans, looks to the ceiling. “I’m not… I’m not _that_\--”

“Dude, you have cranberry juice in your fridge.”

Derek glares. “It’s _healthy_.”

Scott tries not to laugh, palms up in appeasement. “Sure, whatever makes you happy.” He scratches the back of his neck briefly. “Um, so. Hey. So, I just wanted to let you know that Stiles knows. About us.”

Derek chops what _could_ have at one point been an onion. “So?”

Scott lets out a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. “So… that’s it. I just figured I should let you know, Stiles isn’t always known for his secret-keeping abilities.” Scott could feel Stiles, miles away, flip him off for the assertion, though it was true.

At this, Derek stops what he’s doing, looks up and raises his brows. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

“Oh.” Scott’s got the wind knocked out of him, a little. Derek’s dark lashes, his empty apartment, his hard edged face. It all feels, suddenly, like a lot. Like all of it is pressing up against Scott--and not in an entirely bad way. “I guess I kind of just assumed maybe you didn’t want people to know.”

“Why?”

Because you’re the most shut-off, challenging, mysterious person I’ve ever met. “You’re a private guy.”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t care who you tell what to. I’m not hiding anything here.”

Scott barely controls the automatic laugh. Derek could have actual, real skeletons in his closet and Scott would not be surprised. “Okay,” he says instead, “cool.”

“Are you okay with him knowing?” Derek stabs the onions again. They’re not exactly what one would call ‘bitesize.’

“Yeah, I…” Scott thinks. The panic, the need he’d felt to protect what Derek and he share--whatever that is--has evaporated in the presence of Derek’s easy acceptance. It feels so silly now, in retrospect, that Scott was really afraid that their connection would not stand up to scrutiny. That if someone looked, if someone saw them together and knew, that it would all fall apart. As if what they did could only exist between their breaths, and would evaporate in the sun. “I’m cool with it.”

“Good,” is all Derek says, and something in Scott settles, and that’s that. Then the stove makes a noise Scott’s pretty sure it should not make.

“Okay, seriously, _what_ are you making? It’s been like an hour, I’m starving. I’ll pay for pizza, man, just tell me.”

Derek says, “It’s chicken. And… things.” He manages to make the word ‘things’ threatening.

Scott sighs, slips his head against the cool counter. “Wake me when it’s ready, then.”

Scott gets a gentle shove not fifteen minutes later. Derek’s expression is the closest to sheepish Scott’s ever seen. “Um,” he says, shift-eyed, “what do you want on your half of the pizza?”

The entire frying pan is pushed into the trash can, something like tar bubbling over its sides. Scott beams, “Ham and pepperoni, please.”

-

“I’m spoiled,” says Scott lazily, grinning, head spinning. “You spoil me.” He’s happy, hazy drunk and full of cheese and grease. Derek’s wine is good, mid-range and tastes sweet when he licks it off Scott’s lips. They’re sprawled together across his bed, crusts on paper plates pushed to the edge of the sheets. Derek’s hands are curled into Scott’s, pressing him into the mattress, a careless, indolent show of strength. His kisses trail along Scott’s neck, lazy and purposeless, humming with quiet growls whenever Scott shifts, smiles.

“Yeah, don’t worry, you can pay me back. I’m gonna make you…” Derek nips at Scott’s skin. “Gonna make you scrub my floors or something.”

“Dude, I already sucked your dick. What do I look like, Cinderella?”

“You’d look good in glass heels, I bet.”

“Yeah?” Scott kicks out one leg, admiring his calf. “Damn, probably.

Derek laughs, light and airy, the sound tickling Scott’s throat. “I do spoil you, though,” he says, “buy healthy shit… trying to learn to cook.”

“You say that like it’s my fault, and not something a grown man should already know to do.” Scott drags him in for a deep, dirty kiss. A little oregano, a little ashy, mostly bright, red wine he sucks from Derek’s bottom lip.

Derek rolls his eyes, peeling away from Scott enough so he can be sure to appreciate the sarcasm in full view. “Not like anybody taught me how to… you know.”

“What?” Scott grins, panting softly. “Be a person?”

“Yeah,” says Derek, eyes liquid black in the dark lighting, intense. His voice is all at once immensely fragile and Scott’s stomach swoops low.

“Oh.” They stare. Their breaths are loud, now. Their gaze is a tightrope. “You can… you can talk to me, you know, if you wanted. About… stuff.” Scott tries not to wince at his utter failure at trying to be comforting. He cups the back of Derek’s neck with his palm, says, “I just mean, I’m here. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener, so. The offer’s there, if you want.”

Derek stares and stares, then blinks, and rolls off of Scott. He doesn’t go far, though, their shoulders slightly overlapping, one of Derek’s legs still tangled between Scott’s. He breathes deeply, staring at the ceiling as Scott studies his shadowed profile. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “It’s not that my life is that shitty. They left me money, you know, so I don’t… God. Fuck, listen to me. They’re gone. That’s what it is. They’re just _gone_. And I don’t--I don’t understand it, sometimes. How they’re just not here. Sometimes it feels unreal… or like, _I’m_ not real. How can I be here without them, you know? Without _all_ of them? It just doesn’t make sense, so sometimes it’s hard to believe it, and I have to convince myself I’m not a ghost.” He sucks in a sharp breath, swallows back whatever he was going to say next. The silence hangs like swords over their heads.

Scott feels cold and sober, suddenly. He blinks, turns his head, and watches the blades of Derek’s ceiling fan spin slow, slow. “My dad knocked me down the stairs as a kid. I’m not trying to compare anything, I just want you to know you’re not alone, feeling this stuff. Like, it was just the one time, my mom cut him off immediately after. But I swear to God, I wish I could just--drag the memory out of my head because it fucks me up at the worst times, for no good reason. Like, I’m fine, it was one time, I was a kid. But I just…” And maybe, maybe it’s the dark or Derek’s warm skin or the sweet dry wine dragging this out of him, but he finds himself unable to stop the confessions from spilling over. “When I was a senior, I tried to kill myself. It’s not--don’t worry, I’m not like that anymore. I mean. I was pretty low, throughout high school. Nobody knows. I was--” Shit, _fuck_ he’s crying, God, _shut up, McCall._ “I was gonna set myself on fire in my fucking bathtub.” He laughs. “Got the gasoline all over me and everything, but I just sat there, letting it drip off me. Sometimes when I’m gassing up the bike, now, the smell just makes my skin crawl. And I’m better now, I really am, but God. I know what it’s like to not feel alive. But you are, Derek, you really fucking are.” His hand finds Derek’s and his heart finds an equally desperate one.

After a beat, Scott turns his head. Derek’s staring straight at him, skin shining beneath his eyes, brow furrowed.

“Fuck, Scott--” He stops himself. He says, “I’m glad--” He stops himself. “You--” A rough, angry inhale. His hand squeezes Scott’s. “My girlfriend murdered nine members of my family. I don’t know how to be a fucking person.”

Scott will be the first to admit that he doesn’t know everything about having a fuck buddy, but he’s pretty sure crying about your tragic pasts at two in the morning with them is a big no-no. Before tonight, he was pretty convinced Derek was allergic to talking about, or maybe even having emotions. And alright, maybe they’ve way crossed the line into talking about feelings territory, but honestly? Scott does not care. “That’s horrible,” he says, low. “That’s… I can’t even imagine, Derek.”

Derek lifts his eyes enough to meet Scott’s. His mouth opens, and Scott can already see the shape of an excuse, a deflection, a _it’s not that bad_, or, _whatever_, saying it doesn’t do anything. Except for how it does, of course; except for how gut-wrenchingly bad it is.

But instead, after a beat, his parted lips blow out a sigh. He leans forward, forehead resting on Scott’s shoulder. Scott’s heartbeat worries itself like a stress ball, but then, ever so slowly and with the utmost care, he reaches his arms around Derek, palms connecting to the bare skin of his back. Derek doesn’t push into the hug, but he doesn’t stiffen at the touch. Scott throws worry out the window and wraps Derek up in a proper hug, chin hooking at the crook of Derek’s neck. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to say anything. They lie there in the silence, breathing, and after a dozen or so long, long seconds, Derek’s hands curl around and clutch at Scott, returning the embrace.

-

**july, 2014**

“Shit,” says Derek. He drops a cigarette quickly, stomping it out. He’s half-hidden in the shadowed alley behind the dance club. “Sorry. What’re you doing here?”

Scott splays his arms out wide, twirling under the night. The world outside the club is fresh, sparkling with streetlight and Scott drinks it in.

“Just out dancing with friends.” Scott smiles at him. Derek is so pretty.

Derek laughs. His laugh isn’t as pretty as his face. Did he say that out loud? “Jesus, how drunk are you?”

“Very,” says Scott, proud of it. “I have many numbers.” He dips into his pockets to prove it, napkins and receipts and scraps of paper with numbers scrawled on them spilling out.

Derek’s eyes blacken. He drifts forward, peeling off the wall like a shadow. “So you do.”

“I made friends,” he agrees, because the drag queens gave him interesting makeup tips and talked basketball and astrology with him and their friends flirted with him and he thinks now they’re all probably friends even though a few of them also said they’d like to kiss him, but he and Allison and Kira are friends and he’s kissed them, so it was fine.

Derek tips his chin up. He tastes and smells disgusting, cigarette smoke and the dumpster in the alley not helping. But his body is broad and solid, pressing against Scott’s. His heat radiates off, fills Scott’s bones, his fingers gentle on the edge of Scott’s jaw. It leaves Scott shivery and wanting when Derek breaks the kiss.

“Take me home?”

Derek nods.

-

“Uh.” Scott squints at his dorm. “I was… I meant…”

“I know what you meant. But you’re hammered.” Derek clicks his seatbelt out of the holder and opens his door. “Come on.”

Scott follows, slower and stumbling slightly, until they’re outside his room. “I’d invite you in but my roommate will be pissed if I wake him up,” he whispers.

“I would say no, anyway.”

“That’s mean. You’re mean. And wobbly.” Derek guides him to the floor. Scott curls his knees to his chest and knocks his forehead against them. Derek leans against the opposite hallway wall, legs stretched out in front of him. “I like drinking,” he says, “but I don’t like being drunk.”

“The great paradox,” says Derek, sagely.

“I know you won’t fuck me but can we make out a tiny amount?” Scott holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, then shrinks the distance. “Very tiny?”

Derek smiles. It’s soft, in the way he rarely is. It’s a good look. His eyes are brighter for it, his frown lines less pronounced. Derek confuses Scott on the best day. He’s simple, because he’s hot and good at sex and bad at words. But he’s complicated, because he teases his little sister and lost most of his family to a fire someone he trusted started and he fucks rough like Scott likes, still with gentle, gentle hands on Scott’s thighs, brushing the sweaty hair from Scott’s forehead, kissing the dip of Scott’s collarbone like his skin is sugar, like his bones are gold.

The smile doesn’t grow but Derek’s face softens further as Scott crawls across the distance between them, straddling Derek’s waist. He’s usually so razor-edged, it’s alien to see him so still and calm. Scott kisses the corner of his smiling mouth, closed-lipped and brief, before moving higher along his cheek.

Derek’s hands rest at Scott’s lower back and Scott kisses his way back to Derek’s mouth. He draws away the smile, deepening the kiss, fingertips grazing Derek’s face. The kiss is sweet and undemanding, unlike every other kiss they’ve shared, which was always a precursor, always the opening act. But this is all there is for them, now, and they both know it and somehow it’s fine. Derek plays with Scott’s hair and slides his warm palms under Scott’s shirt, skimming along the skin of Scott’s back. Scott relishes Derek’s heat and closeness and practiced knowledge of all the ways Scott likes to be touched.

Eventually, Scott pulls back, and settles himself against Derek’s chest.

“You should go to bed.” Derek says, quietly.

“Mm. Yeah. In a minute.” Derek’s chest is firm, smells like leather and some sort of woodsy body spray. His shirt is cotton and prime for snuggling. Derek sighs but doesn’t try to dislodge Scott, or wriggle out of his cuddling.

Scott drops his head against Derek’s shoulder, nose brushing the base of Derek’s neck.

-

** _sorry for falling asleep on you but ty for the ibuprofen!_ **

Scott hits send, takes the pill with the glass of water on his nightstand, stale but a cool reprieve to his pounding head.

** _You’re heavy._ **

Scott smiles, winces, responds, **_you can’t ruin my mood. I’ve got fifteen new friend requests and no homework to worry about for the rest of the day_**

Derek doesn’t text back, but that’s all right. Scott shoves his face under a pillow and waits for the jackhammer in his brain to quiet down.

-

“So how’s… things.” Stiles runs a lap around him in Mario Kart.

“What?” Scott’s really trying to focus on getting a blue shell.

“With… y’know.”

“_What_?” Peach flies off the rainbow bridge as Scott whirls to stare. Since Stiles figured out Derek was the friend giving Scott all those benefits, they haven’t mentioned it. In fact, his teasing whenever Scott’s phone buzzes about it being a booty call or ribbing Scott about having a sugar daddy has ended completely. He now just awkwardly looks away if Scott cuts their hangouts off early. “Um… good. Really good.”

“Uh-huh. And he’s… nice?”

Scott snorts. “You’ve met him right? Would you use that word to describe him?” Stiles cracks a tiny smile. “But he is… I dunno. Considerate? And that’s nice.” The smile fades quickly. Stiles’ jaw jumps, his grip on the controller tight. Scott has given up trying to keep up with the game, just watching Stiles. “Why do you ask?”

“I dunno.” Stiles shrugs, tugs at his laces. “I just don’t really like him. And I don’t like that he’s using you.”

Scott laughs out of surprise, eyebrows shooting up. “He’s not using me.”

Stiles pauses the game, stretching his arms out in front of him on his knees. “Scott, he only ever asks you around for sex. And I know you don’t just want that.”

Scott frowns, looking down at the controller in his hands. “You don’t know _everything_ about me,” he says.

Stiles drops his arms, shoulders going rigid. Now he looks at Scott; Scott looks away. “I guess I don’t.”

-

Derek usually goes out to grab a post-coital meal on Tuesdays, but Scott is full of pent up energy this time. He shoves his clothes back on and steals one of Derek’s jackets, which hangs too big off his frame, and races Derek to the elevator before closing it in his face.

Scott hoots in laughter, nudging and poking at a sour Derek all the way down the block for losing their race.

“Do you want free food tonight or what?” he asks, raising his thick eyebrows. Scott smartly snaps his mouth shut, grinning and sticking his tongue out. He burrows deeper into the leather of Derek’s jacket, balling the ends of the sleeves into his hand.

Derek’s shoulders brush against his as they walk. The night is vast and starless from the city’s light pollution, a lone helicopter blinking across the vibrant navy sky. Scott breathes in the cold air, sweetly chilled and crisp in his lungs. His arms shiver with goosebumps, but it’s a nice chill. He bumps closer to Derek, who grumbles a little but doesn’t pull away.

They huddle together on a bench near the truck after collecting their food, styrofoam containers spread out on their knees. Scott tears his burrito in two and trades half of it for one of Derek’s empanadas.

Sometimes Derek will tell him a tiny fact about a far away constellation they can’t see, sometimes they chew in silence, and both feel just as natural and comfortable. Scott collects their trash and collapses down on the bench after he’s thrown it away, landing sideways, ankles dangling off the arm rest and head in Derek’s lap.

He stares up at the sky. The helicopter has long gone. The moon is a bright white eye staring back at him.

“I think I’m happy,” he says, with a soft smile. “I don’t think I was unhappy, before… whenever. But I just--I’m really happy. Like, right now. And in general, the way my life is going, the people I have in it. It’s so good. There’s still--there’s still so much, but--” He slides his gaze from the sky to Derek. “Do you know what I mean?” Scott isn’t even sure what he means. But he knows there’s a ball of colors burning in his chest, bleeding out down through his arms and his fingertips, making everything bright with meaning and hope. He wants to savor the feeling as long as he can, wants to share it.

Derek’s eyes are blue and yellow, reflecting neon store signs and gentle glowing street lights. He’s unreadable and very still. After a long moment, he sets a hand in Scott’s hair, soft as he’s ever touched him. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “I know.”

-

**september, 2014.**

“Okay, that’s where you keep losing me. How are you making that jump, from a to b?”

Scott opens his mouth to explain when his dorm’s doorway darkens. He glances over Thomas’ shoulder, grins. “Hey, Derek. What’re you doing here?”

Derek looks between Thomas and Scott, the books strewn over Scott’s bed, before snapping his eyes back to Scott. “I tried calling. Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab some lunch, it’s taco day.”

Scott groans, hand over stomach. “Sorry, dude, my phone’s probably still on silent. And I really want to, but we’ve got to cram for this test tomorrow.”

Thomas, though, shakes his head. “It’s okay, Scott, your notes really helped. If I have any more questions I’ll just text you, and I can come over later for with some flashcards.” He starts packing up his notebooks and Scott’s annotated notes to borrow and study with.

Scott frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah, go have lunch.” He bites his lip, and darts in for a quick hug, which Scott happily returns. “Um, thanks again. For everything. See you later!” he calls, ducking past Derek.

Scott collects his own books and papers, organizing them into stacks to set on his desk. “I’m feeling carnitas today, but do you think we could swing by the bookstore first? I want to see if they have a copy of--whoa,” says Scott, who suddenly has six feet of Derek plastered to his back. Derek’s scruff rubs at the back of his neck. Scott tries to ignore the primal bolt of heat in his gut as an automatic response.

“Um,” he says, not displeased, “I thought you were hungry.”

Derek spins him around by his waist so they face each other. Scott’s backed up against his desk and kissed in a way that can only be described as _filthy_, and then Derek says, “I am,” eyes all dark with pupil.

A faint, fluttery feeling under Scott’s skin. He has to remind himself that the door to his room is still open and count to five in his head before he’s composed enough to say, “Uh… huh.”

“I’ll take you to the bookstore and to get tacos,” says Derek, voice hard, almost challenging. His thigh slips between Scott’s legs, making him respond with a quiet whimper. “And then we can go to my place.” He tugs Scott’s bottom lip between his teeth, then pulls away. “If you want. Or if you really need to study, you could call Thomas back here, spend your day with him.”

There’s something almost… Scott shakes his head to clear away the ridiculous thought, but frowns. “Thomas is just my study buddy.”

Derek snorts, nipping sharply at Scott’s neck. “You’re some kind of buddies.”

Scott pulls away, putting a firm hand against Derek’s chest when he leans in to follow. “Derek, what’s up with you?”

He exhales loudly, shoulders shuddering. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding down on his response. “Nothing,” he says, with a strained calm. “Nothing, it’s--it’s not you. Forget it, okay?”

“I…” Scott’s hand slackens but he doesn’t drop it, torn. Wanting but curious. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. You know I don’t mind.”

“No,” says Derek, fierce. He knocks their noses together, mouth near trembling against Scott’s with a contained _something_. “I want this.”

Scott shivers at the rough growl of Derek’s voice and brings both hands to Derek’s head, guiding his lips back to Scott’s neck.

-

The fight starts over nothing. Scott gets a text from Stiles, Derek makes a snide comment that Scott doesn’t fully catch and suddenly their make-out session is over and Scott feels an anger rising in his chest in a way he never has. It feels like they’ve been having the same argument for an hour, talking in circles, and Scott’s head is going to explode from it.

“We can’t keep doing this,” says Derek, again, for some fucking reason.

“Doing what? Yelling? Yeah, let’s stop!”

“This. Us. _You’re_…” Derek looks at him. He flays him with his eyes. It makes Scott shiver, makes him angrier, makes him want to move closer and touch, be touched. “You’re impossible.”

“What are you talking about!” If Derek would stop being so _cryptic_ for one fucking second maybe they could have an actual conversation--

“I _want_ you,” says Derek, like the words are filth. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, nostrils flaring.

Scott’s palms fall flat against his jeans. “What,” he says, rough, stunned.

“I want you.” Derek steps closer, so does Scott. He barely registers the movement, they drift together, tugged along by some invisible tide. “And not as a casual fuck. I want to tear Thomas’ fucking head off for the way he looks at you. I want you, all the time. It’s not nice, Scott, I’m not fair. I’m not offering you anything. I’m just… insatiable, when it comes to you.”

Fuck. “_Fuck_,” says Scott. Derek’s hands hover at Scott’s jaw, their breaths mixing warmly. Scott wants to be fucked, wants Derek to fuck him--fast, possessive, _insatiable_. He forces himself to step back. “You’re--jealous?”

Derek exhales a short laugh. “Yeah. Fucked up, huh?”

“Yeah. Derek, yeah, you can’t--you can’t--” Derek is just, he’s just--_there_. Tall and broad and empty fingers flexing and eyes dark with pupil, blistering Scott’s skin with their intensity. “We agreed, right? We agreed, this was, this--no strings. We said.” He’s trying to remind himself as much as Derek.

“I’m not trying to justify it, Scott. I know what we said, I know I’m the one who broke our little fuck bubble. I’m not sorry.” He looks it though, just a little, just enough that Scott can see.

“I don’t--” he swallows, looks down at the floor. His ears are ringing with Derek’s words; hearing them over and over without fully understanding. “I don’t know if I want a relationship. I’m sorry, Derek, I really am, because I like you but I’m--”

“Okay,” says Derek. “I’m not asking for one.”

Scott’s neck snaps straight, brows pinching together. “But you just--”

“What I want,” he says, slow and low, full of heat, “is not a relationship. I want you, all the time, and I want to be the only thing you want.”

“That’s not fair. That’s not--Derek--”

“I know. I _know_ it’s not.”

They stare at each other in the silence for a minute, in the aftermath of truth. Of knowing. Scott weighs their… whatever it is, in his mind. All the things he likes about this strange, hard to crack man. Most of them start and end with his body, his hands, the things he whispers into Scott’s ear. But there’s a tiny, vulnerable, genuine enjoyment of him as a person, buried beneath it. Derek is one of the loneliest people Scott knows, and Scott knows loneliness more intimately than he cares to remember.

So he says, “Derek, what we have--I have actually come to value our friendship above the--the, uh--”

“Fucking.”

“Sex,” Scott says, frowning slightly at Derek’s crassness. “I don’t want to lose my friend. And I’m afraid if we keep going like this, with this… unhealthy possessiveness, I will.”

“Well, I don’t.” Derek stands, shrugs his jacket on.

“What?” Scott follows, reaching for him. Their argument has taken so many hair-pin turns he feels like he has whiplash. “Wait, stop. What are you saying?”

Derek pauses, hand on the doorknob. “I’m here for the fuck, not the chat after. I thought I was pretty clear.”

And then everything snaps into focus like a rubber band breaking against skin. Scott’s chest is stuffed with thorns. He draws a heavy breath. “So that’s it?” he says. “Really? You’re serious, the only thing between us is sex?”

Derek doesn’t answer, doesn’t look back. But he does pause. Scott studies those broad shoulders hidden under leather--he knows Derek’s opinion on every season of _Grey’s Anatomy._ He knows the freckles under that jacket, how to kiss them. He knows Derek’s favorite order from their food truck, can spot the tremor in his hands when he’s craving a cigarette but won’t reach for his pack because Scott’s around. Scott knows his shampoo is coconut scented and he knows all of Derek’s different laughs. But God help him, he still can’t spot when Derek’s lying.

The door shuts.

-

**october, 2014.**

“You can say I told you so,” says Scott, sniffling.

“Okay, I told you so,” says Stiles.

Lydia whaps him with a container of cookies before extending it to Scott. “You’re not supposed to actually say it.”

“He said I could!”

Scott takes three cookies and stuffs them all in his face at once. Lydia winces sympathetically. Scott chews slowly, staring at the ceiling. His phone is full of loving, supportive texts (Allison and Kira) and offers of violence on behalf of him (Malia and Erica) and he is wrapped in blankets, trapped between two of his best friends and tons of junk food. He sighs; crumbs bounce off his chin and onto his shirt.

“It’s not even that we were sleeping together. I mean, that was part of it, but I just… he didn’t have to be cruel. Being dumped, it happens, but he didn’t have to be cruel,” Scott repeats, voice getting smaller, softer. He curls his head towards Lydia, who snuggles her cheek against his, wraps her hands warmly around his.

Stiles makes a sharp, angry noise, and adds himself to the cuddle pile. “He didn’t deserve you, Scott, not for a second.”

-

**november, 2014.**

The knock on his door comes at the witching hour. Scott’s rubbing his eyes, midway through a yawn when he swings the door open to stop the incessant pounding and--

“I would stick around if you became a nun,” says Derek, eyes huge and red-rimmed, smelling like bourbon and his cherry nicotine gum.

“One: I can’t become a nun,” says Scott, opening his dorm’s door a little more to lean up against the frame, “because I’m a man and not a currently practicing Catholic. Two: what the hell, Derek?”

“See?” Derek smiles, sloppy and drunk, showing too many teeth and too much gum. Vulnerable and too sweet. “I didn’t know you were Catholic. We’re improving already.”

“It’s late--”

“No, wait, I--okay, listen, okay?” Scott stares, straining his jaw. He nods. “I don’t care about the sex. I mean--fuck, I mean I _do_. A lot. You’re…” Derek’s smile grows, dopey and far-away. “Scott you’re amazing, I mean Jesus Christ--fuck, wait, is that offensive? Religiously?”

Scott bites at the inside of his cheeks to hold back a laugh. “No, I’m not offended.”

“Right, lapsed Catholic, right. Okay, so then, babe, you’re a fucking revelation in bed--”

“Derek,” Scott says sharply, “did you really come here to tell me that?”

“No, no, no. Sorry.” He shuts his eyes briefly, as if in pain. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, I swear. I just--I want to be your friend. The sex is good--great--it’s amazing--but I want to be your friend. If that means no sex, that’s fine. But I was lying, before. You are enough. More than enough. And I know it was shitty, I’ve been really shitty. And I’m sorry. I’m just--” he holds his palms out, mouth wilting, “I’m really sorry.”

Scott purses his lips, hand squeezing the doorknob. “You were really shitty.”

“I know. I know I was, I’m sorry.”

“Really, really shitty.”

Derek hangs his head, nodding.

“And you can’t--all the possessive shit. That wasn’t cool to just drop that on me and then drop me. And make me feel like you were just using me for sex. That was,” his breath catches wetly and he tries to stomp down the old hurts that threaten to rise, “_really_ shitty.”

“I know, God, I--I can’t say anything but I’m sorry and I swear, I won’t ever do something like that again, if you give me a chance to be your friend.”

Scott considers him. For the first time, ever, he has complete power over Derek. No blustering, no bullshitting, no bickering. Not a hint of a smirk, or insincerity. He can’t help the touch of skepticism in his voice. “Why? I mean--why do you want to?”

Derek says, “I’m bad for you, maybe, I don’t know. I think I could be better, with you. I’m not saying you have to make me better, I’m saying I like who I am when I’m around you. I like you. I--” He balls his hands, mouth snapping shut around a noise of frustration. He breathes deeply, nostrils flaring. “I admire you, Scott. You’re someone I want to be around. If that’s--if you’re--if that’s okay.”

Derek stares at the ground. Scott can’t deny a certain satisfaction in watching him squirm. It doesn’t last, since he’s been resigned to the slow, unstoppable caving inside of him since Derek’s first _sorry_ passed his lips.

Scott slumps against the doorframe. “If I let you inside it’s not to have sex.”

Derek shows his hands, fingers spread peaceably. “Understood.”

-

“Drink,” commands Scott.

Derek gives him a pissy look but sips at the water, glassy eyes shutting in relief briefly. He gulps it down in a few seconds, wiping his mouth a bit sheepishly. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Scott slings himself onto his roommate’s bed, watching Derek warily. Derek fidgets with the mug. Scott starts to pick at the hemp bracelet his roommate gave him, then sighs.

“You want to watch a movie or something?”

Which is how, two hours later, Scott finds himself snuggled against the broad chest of Derek, _Finding Nemo’s_ credits fading across the screen of the laptop balanced on his knees. He sniffles and turns his face into the solid warmth of Derek.

“Sap,” a nearly sober Derek accuses, softly, smiling.

“What are you, made of stone?” Scott pokes him. “Nah, still squishy.”

“Squishy?” Derek gasps. “_Squishy?_ Have you seen this?” He tugs up his shirt, revealing his muscled abdomen. “You calling me squishy? How dare you!”

Scott screams with laughter, wriggling away from Derek, who attacks him with tickles, shoving his hands under Scott’s armpits. “Stop, stop!” cries Scott, breathless from the giggles. They tumble off the twin bed, Derek panting and grinning above him.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind Scott’s ear, leans in, and kisses him softly on the forehead. “Thank you.”

Scott opens his mouth to answer but no words feel right. Derek rolls off of him, staring up at the ceiling with a smile, chest still heaving.

Scott crawls back into his bed, shuts the laptop, and tosses his pillow and an extra blanket at Derek.

-

“Are you fucking kidding me,” says Stiles, tonelessly.

“It’s…” Scott spins the coffee stirrer in his cup. “We’re a work in progress, Stiles. And this time it’s different, we’re just friends.”

“Scott.”

“I think it’s good,” says Lydia, sipping her macchiato. “You’ve been moody since you’re break-up and it sounds like he begged appropriately.”

Stiles goggles at her. “Are you kidding me?” his voice takes a slightly hysterical edge. “You were there, with me, after that asshole stomped on Scott’s heart, right?”

“Stiles,” sighs Scott.

“Yes, and I’ve already sent the requisite threats to Derek so he knows that should he ever do such a thing again, all hellfire will rain down upon him for all eternity.” She does a quick check of her perfect lipstick in a compact mirror after another sip.

“Wait, you _what_,” says Scott.

“I still don’t like it,” says Stiles. “In fact, I hate it and it’s a terrible idea.” He sulks for a moment, then reaches across the table. “Give me that damn croissant.”

-

Despite Stiles’ gloomy outlook and Lydia’s (and Kira, Allison, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica’s, he later learned) threats, being friends with Derek was, surprisingly, easy. It was almost the same as it was before, except when Derek texted _Come over_, it meant a movie marathon and tacos, or he would help Scott with his literary analysis, something he was shockingly good at. Derek showed up with doughnuts and helped Scott make flashcards. He invited Scott to shop for side tables and lamps and quilts as he started to spruce up the loft. He got Scott hooked on _Grey’s Anatomy_ and every Thursday they watched it together. Commercial breaks Derek would throw up flashcards or listen to Scott talk about his day. Derek didn’t offer anything about his, he didn’t invite Scott to sleep over, he didn’t text him as frequently, but. It worked. It was nice; it turned out, Derek Hale _was_ nice.

Derek was a good friend, not because he was perfect or not awkward or not still prone to insults as a defense mechanism; he was a good friend because he tried. And Scott was happy to have him back in his life, honestly.

Except.

Except during those nights, watching _Grey’s Anatomy_ and sharing green sauce, there was always a good foot of space between them on the couch. Derek was careful not to let their hands touched when they both reached for the guacamole. When they walked near each other, not even their shoulders would bump. It was worse, Scott thought, than if they did just touch. He could feel every inch between them like it was fire. The heat of that distance only grew. Derek would make a flashcard, or make Scott laugh, or cook dinner and there would, invariably, be a moment where their eyes caught. A few months ago, a look like that meant one thing. The air was charged with it. It was like they were reading each other’s thoughts and all of Scott’s self-control felt strung out on a wire. He wanted to be Derek’s friend; if that meant no sex, that was fine. He could manage it.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

-

**december, 2014.**

Scott’s dancing with Kira at a holiday party in the dorms, feeling light and alive, so happy that she’s transferring back to their coast in the new year. Stiles and Malia are trying to start a conga line and Boyd is crushing it at karaoke. Kira spins him round and round. This is when his life feels perfect, completely on track and right. He’s only had one beer but his whole head is buzzing. He loves his friends, he loves his life. He’s so damn lucky.

Kira boos him when he moves toward the corridor leading to the stairs. He throws her a wave, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. He takes the stairs two at a time before pushing himself outside.

The air is like a refreshing slap of cool water on his overheated face. He wanders around the quad for some time, until he finds a grand and mighty oak, and falls beneath it. He stares up at the night sky with wide eyes and a full heart.

Not as many stars as he’d like, but he counts himself grateful for every single one that do shine down on him. The dark, quiet, still night envelops him like some old, giant creature cradling him in the palm of its hand. The oak’s limbs sway above him with a weak breeze. This is his favorite time: night so black it robs your memory of day.

“Hey,” says a voice. Scott strains his neck to look behind him. Derek is smiling upside down. He walks closer to Scott. “Saw you leave the party. I came to give you something.”

“What?”

Derek’s grin comes into focus as Scott pushes up on his elbows, head rushing. Derek sits down opposite him. Their legs are stretched in different, parallel directions, palms flat on the earth. Their thighs are very close, Scott notices immediately.

“Lydia texted me an invite, but my days of college parties are long behind me, I think. But I wanted to give you this.” Derek hands Scott a small object, hastily wrapped in a thin layer of tissue paper. “Also, side note but your friends really don’t like me.”

Scott holds the gift in his hands like the precious thing it is. “That’s not true,” he protests. Derek squints. “Okay, it’s kinda true. But they’re just being protective.”

“I know,” says Derek, with a slight turn to his mouth. “That’s why I like _them_ so much.” In the dark, Derek’s eyes are pitch black, glittering. His mouth is shadowed, soft. Scott remembers what it tastes like and suddenly has a craving. “Go on, open it.”

Scott tears away the paper and barks out a laugh. A beat up carton of cigarettes sits in his hands.

“Seriously?”

Derek only smiles. “That was my last pack. Almost three months ago, now. Quit cold turkey, haven’t slipped up since. But the real gift is inside there.”

Scott gives the box a little shake and something rattles. He flips the top of the carton.

“Oh.”

A golden star with a thin thread looped at the top. Scott is transported through time; when he ran around a parking lot to give Derek Hale a gift so that maybe, hopefully, he would have a good Christmas. They never talked about, Derek never mentioned it and Scott always figured he’d either forgotten or never realized that Scott was the one who did it.

Scott clutches the ornament delicately.

“That’s when I knew, if I’m being honest.” Scott meets Derek’s dark, liquid eyes. “That you were a good man. A person worth knowing, worth fighting for.”

Scott can’t think of a single word. They are so close, closer than they’ve been since everything fell apart. Derek leans in. A hand on Scott’s cheek; Scott’s eyes close. Derek’s hand is iron hot.

“I’ll fight for this. Scott, for you. I know I fucked up. But I see you and us, and it’s clear, now. I want to be your friend for the rest of my life Scott, and if that’s it, that’s extraordinary. But if you want more… If I can do this, too.” And now he takes Scott’s face in both hands, their bodies breathing toward each other. Scott can almost taste his words. “Then I want that. Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” says Scott, and Derek chuckles, a low, warm sound. It aches, to hear that noise. To be here, under the stars, Scott’s favorite time of night, gold star burning in his palm, Derek’s hands setting fire to his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Okay. Is this okay?”

“Yes, yes. Yeah.”

“Then just tell me when it isn’t, okay?”

Scott exhales. It takes everything in him not to melt, not to just fall back into it with Derek here and now. Derek pushes forward at a glacial pace, waiting for Scott to pull away. Scott nearly trembles, waiting for Derek to move. They push together, finally, lips meeting and it is all heat, that taste Scott couldn’t forget if he tried. He moves, then, grabbing Derek, dragging him closer by the fistful because it’s still not enough. Derek kisses him like he’s dying, everything around them tinder to the blaze of their tongues, their hands. Touching, tasting; moaning until Scott drags himself away, drinking in his breaths to douse some of the dangerous heat between them. Derek watches him, dewy and dark lashes, those eyes, that _mouth_\--

“Okay,” Scott says.

-

And so begins a new normal. _Grey’s Anatomy_ on Derek’s couch, all wrapped up in Derek’s quilt and arms. Derek kisses him after Scott eats a doughnut, licking away all that powdered sugar. Scott crashes at Derek’s place sometimes, surrounded by flashcards, sleeping soundly against Derek’s chest. They’re taking it slow, this time, but even the simplest touch is worth it. The collapse of space between them rights something with their friendship, makes it all that much easier.

Stiles thinks he’s a complete idiot, of course, but Scott can’t explain the feeling of a piece of his chest being put back in place.

-

**january, 2015.**

Derek watches him fold laundry, quizzing him. Their old habits and new habits have meshed so seamlessly it’s hard to remember a time they weren’t like this. Except when Derek stretches his arms like that in his clingy henley. The room is empty save for them and it’s moments like these that make Scott’s hands itch.

Scott’s answering Derek’s question about dog vertebrae when he can sense Derek shift off his seat atop the dryer. He’s hyper aware of Derek’s breathing, his movements--his mouth, the dark curve of it when he catches Scott looking, again.

“Uh…” he says, dropping a sock. He crouches quickly to grab it, flattening it out on the machine with his hands. Derek leans in his space, waiting for him to finish. “Sacrum, lumbar, cervical. Caudal.”

“What about this?” Derek reaches out slowly, tracing the tip of his finger against the sliver of Scott’s skin vulnerable above the collar of his t-shirt. It leaves a warm buzz from his touch.

“That’s not--um, that’s… different anatomy, you know, from a dog’s spine.” Scott doesn’t, can’t breathe. Derek doesn’t--can’t--move away. The air is slightly humid, washers humming distantly. “But that’s my, uh, C6? I think? Maybe? The cervical--oh.”

Derek’s stretching his arm over, henley tugging up, wrinkling attractively at his shoulders, straining across his chest. “Hm?”

“Oh, the, uh, C6. It’s got uh, um a large…” Derek hops off the machine, moves to stand behind Scott. He smooths his palm against Scott’s neck, sliding his hand up into Scott’s hair. His grip tightens in the slightest. “... foramen ventral…” Scott isn’t even sure of the words coming out of his mouth, reciting something from some study guide somewhere, all his attention on Derek: Derek’s touch, his proximity, the dirty, dangerous glint to his eye. “... to the transverse process…” A thousand memories replay in his mind, instantaneously, overlaying one another. A dark, deep cavern of want opens in the pit of Scott’s stomach. He’s missed this.

“I want you,” Derek says, brazen under the low yellow light and soft hum washing machines.

Scott clenches his hands around his warm, half-folded shirt. “Dios mío. Don't _say_ that. You can’t just--just say that.”

“Tell me you don't.” He's so close, suddenly, all hot breath on the back of Scott's neck and hotter hands seeking entrance at the bottom of his shirt. “Tell me you don't want this, I'll never ask you again. Tell me you just want to kiss, to cuddle, huh? That this is over. I'll be so fucking polite. We can be normal friends, I'll come get you when you have a flat tire and I won't even fuck you in my car.” Scott laughs, short and stilted. Derek's fingertips slip past the hem of his shirt, blazing against the dimples of his lower back. “We'll be civil. We'll be good.” The whole, hard length of his body presses against Scott's. “Just tell me what you want.” His rough stubble drags along the nape of Scott's neck.

“Fuck.” He slides his hands over the still, cool lid of the dryer. Tractionless, smooth under his palms, entirely unhelpful. A sense of deja vu. Derek tears down his defenses with a single look, a touch. He needs something to hold, something sharp that will snap him out of this. He needs a real, grounding something to hold onto. He feels untethered, weightless, impossible in the best and most brutal ways.

Derek mouths at Scott’s skin, scraping his prickly chin over the sensitive spot behind his ear. Scott moans, embarrassingly, fingers clenching around nothing, curling to fists.

Derek steps back, leaving Scott cold, a little sticky from sweat, and wanting. Scott turns in confusion, bottom lip still caught between his teeth.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, smirking, eyes dark and half hidden beneath his heavy brow, his head tilted down.

“You didn’t ask a question.”

“Do you want me?”

Scott sucks in a breath. “Shut up,” he says, stepping forward, reaching out, moving in. Breathing against the underside of Derek’s chin, tasting, taking. Derek chuckles and _fuck_ him for being so confident, for knowing them so well. Fuck him for--everything. Scott lays blame for everything in his life at Derek’s feet in the moment. The barista screwed up his coffee order and his lab partner doesn’t do any of the work and his heart has been stuck in a blender and shredded. It’s all Derek’s fault, the smug bastard, and they both know it and yet, still, they both know the answer to his question: _of course._

Kissing him is as easy as it was the first time, the last time. The heat--carefully tamed, kept at bay--rages between them now that they allow it. It was inevitable, falling back into Derek. Since he showed up at Scott’s doorstep, sorry and asking for a second chance. Since Scott decided he was worth one. Derek seems determined not to prove him wrong, but god, even if he is--_this_. Them. The fire between them is something Scott’s not sure he knows how to let go of.

Scott fishes around Derek’s pockets before snagging a condom and sinking to his knees. “Oh.” Derek’s eyes dilate, his hand catches in Scott’s hair. Scott slams Derek’s hips against the front of the washing machine with both hands, goes to work on the fly. He really hopes no one else decides to do their laundry at midnight like him. “You sure?” Derek’s fingers massage through Scott’s curled ends.

He leans back, resting against his heels, and quirks a brow. “I mean, if you’d like I could go.”

“You’re such a little shit,” Derek laughs.

“I’m sorry, did you _not_ want your dick sucked tonight or…?”

Derek grins widely. “Nope, sorry, carry on.”

-

**march, 2015.**

“Turkey burgers?” Scott’s eyebrow lifts skeptically.

Derek sets the plates down on the counter, sliding into the stool next to Scott. “I’ve been practicing,” he says, urging Scott on with a wave of his hand. Scott eyes the burger, spilling with avocado, tomato, lettuce, American cheese melting down its white bread bun. Derek huffs, picks up his own, and takes a huge bite of it, as if to say, _there, see?_

Scott takes a cautious bite, and his face instantly transforms into a grin. “Dude!” He reaches out to shove Derek’s shoulder. “It’s good! Like, actually good.”

“Christ, I wasn’t that bad of a cook, you don’t have to be so shocked.”

Scott politely declines to inform him that yes, he _really_ was that bad of a cook. Instead, he hums happily around the burger, digging in. Not a lot of flavor besides the ingredients, but a decent burger all in all. He’s sure to lament about the awesomeness of it, though, because it makes Derek’s mouth twitch with a smile each time, his head ducking almost bashfully, and most delightfully the tips of his ears even get a little red, after Scott moans and groans and sucks every one of his fingers clean when he’s finished.

Though, the light blush along his ears is accompanied by his eyes growing bigger than the plates in front of them, intense and dark, his breath stilling completely. The kitchen will be gross in the morning; food left to cake on dishes, pans drying with grease. But Derek’s sudden, wet, hot kiss, and getting dragged by the handfuls to bed, is more than enough distraction to allow them to forget about cleaning up.

-

**april, 2015.**

Scott’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes, exhausted and jittery from coffee withdrawal, when a tall, paper cup of decaf is placed in front of him.

“Do you like whipped cream?” asks Derek, throwing himself into the opposite chair. Several heads turn to stare judgmentally at him for speaking above the polite library-whisper.

“What?” Scott hisses, then blinks. “What are you doing here?”

Derek stretches his arms overhead and pops a couple tabs of gum in his mouth. “Whipped cream. The barista asked if I wanted some. Though I can’t imagine who would want whipped cream on plain coffee, but I realized I didn’t know if you liked it or not. Thoughts?”

A couple people shush him, glaring daggers. Scott smiles apologetically at them, grabs Derek by the sleeve, and drags him back into the recesses of the library, the deepest technical shelves that few dare enter.

“What?” Derek laughs as Scott steps back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me!” he stage-whispers.

“Oh, come on. You’ve been killing yourself all week studying. I just figured I’d stop by to help you refuel.”

“Oh.” Scott struggles against a smile. “Well, you can’t do that.”

Derek’s brows lift. “Really?”

“Yes.” Scott lets himself be reeled in by Derek’s arms. “You can’t crash the library or bring me coffee.”

“Why not?”

“Why?” Scott glares up at Derek. “I’m not blowing you in the library, that’s why.”

“It’s not a sex thing, I swear. It’s a you’re my friend thing. And besides… I’m the one who’s gonna blow you.” Derek’s hands drift to Scott’s ass.

Scott tugs at Derek’s ear. “Behave,” he warns, grinning still.

Derek takes out his gum and sticks it to the underside of a shelf, shoving Scott up against the bookcase across it and kissing away his outrage. “Come on. You’re studying so hard, you’re gonna ace your exams. We should celebrate.” He pulls back and kneels, grin dangerously close to Scott’s zipper.

“Jesus _fuck_.” Scott bites down on his knuckles. “You’re such a liar--ah! No, wait, we--we can’t, Derek, in the _library_\--”

“Oh, baby,” says Derek, eyes dark beneath his thick lashes, grin wicked. He lets Scott push him away, and then, after a pause, pull him in close as he pleases. “You haven’t a goddamn clue what I could do to you in here.”

-

Later, at the loft, Derek is reading a book as Scott scrolls through his phone, and still the idea of it has burrowed its way into his brain like a damn parasite, and finally he musters the courage to speak.

“I, uh, I don’t really like whipped cream. Though… maybe if you found a really creative way to use it.” He blushes, he can feel it, and the embarrassment of knowing it just reddens his cheeks more.

Derek grins, wolfish, predatory, ec-fucking-static. “I can think of a few,” he says, already on his way to the kitchen.

-

**june, 2015.**

Scott learns three things in the month of June:

1\. Derek is gorgeous in nothing but a blue swimsuit and adorable with little dots of sunscreen on his nose and cheeks and shoulders. His hands are magic, rubbing oil into Scott’s back before they bake in the sun. He and Braeden are the undefeated pool chicken champions at Kira’s (parents’) pool party, and he and Scott tie for most amount of backflips into the deep end. Scott gets dizzy and Derek kisses him, right there in front of everyone one, tender on the corner of Scott’s mouth, just for a moment, and affection swells Scott’s heart like a bee sting.

2\. Malia Tate can drink every single one of their sorry asses under the table and laugh about it, after.

3\. Whipped cream is great when it’s melting between his skin and Derek’s tongue, early fireworks shattering the sky outside their window, but he can’t look away from Derek’s eyes, not even to blink.

-

**july, 2015.**

Scott’s afraid Derek’s given him a Pavlovian response to fireworks because as the first couple bloom and boom against the summer storm’s clouds, all he can think of is that long, long night. Sweltering, sweaty skin, sweet whipped cream; Derek’s breath on his thigh, his knee. Derek, Derek, Derek, patient, keen-eyed and doting on Scott as he squirmed and laughed and gasped.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Derek mumbles softly, mouth pressed against Scott’s temple.

“Stop reading my thoughts,” Scott whispers, half-serious, half-hoping Derek will help bring them into reality.

“Mhm.” Derek’s lips form a smile. “Are you enjoying the show?”

Scott bites his bottom lip. Derek’s hands are getting a little too curious for company. “I could turn in.”

“You read my mind,” Derek says softly, and he turns to start moving his way through the crowd. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

Scott nods, watching him go for a moment. The world around his cheers as the fireworks show sets off a spectacular purple shower of light. Scott sidles up next to Allison and Lydia, hugging his arms around their shoulders. He waits for a beat of silence as the next rocket whistles up into the air.

“Hey, I think we’re gonna head home. Thanks though, this was fun.” Lydia squeezes him in a hug, as does Allison. Scott grabs for Stiles’ shoulder, who shoots him a thin smile.

Allison follows him a step when he turns, grabbing his arm. “Scott,” she says, shouting a little over the explosion behind her. Gold glitters around her dark hair like a halo. “You seem good. I’m happy for you.”

He smiles, warm from head to toe. “I am. You too, right?”

She beams. “Yeah. Guess you were right, huh? Fate? It really did take care of us.”

Love for her gives him a head rush; she is the best. “Yeah. Guess I was.” They hug once more, and the sky is all color and light, bursting with laughter in the air above them.

-

**september, 2015.**

Scott likes days like this best.

There’s something nostalgic about it: great street truck food in bed, Derek’s dry wit, the blinds drawn just enough, skin and napkins and sopapillas. He likes the waiting, stretched out on Derek’s sheets, alone in the silent apartment, naked and sated. Sometimes he touches himself, eyes closed, soft and directionless. Sometimes he studies, sometimes he watched the ceiling and lets his mind wander.

Today, he naps. Derek wakes him with a kiss, warm hands spanning his hips.

“Food?” asks Scott, leaning back to break the kiss.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I do sometimes wonder if you only come here for the damn tacos.”

“Well,” says Scott, grinning impishly. “Not _just_ the tacos.”

They spread out, invading each other’s space, stealing each other’s sauce and rice, using each other’s spoons. Dinner turns into dessert. Derek tells him stories, when he was a kid and Laura got stuck in a creek and Derek ran to get help. A month he dealt with Lassie jokes.

Scott’s laughing around the crunch of the pastry; a drizzle of honey spills off the flaky crust and catches on the corner of his mouth. Derek leans in and licks it off, leaving Scott breathless and grinning when he pulls back.

“Thank you,” says Derek. His face is still close, breath sweet.

“For what?” Scott laughs, mouth hooked on a smile.

“Just,” says Derek, bated gaze watching him closely. His smile is small, but there. “Just, thank you.”

Scott shrugs. “I guess you’re welcome, then.”

Derek nudges him back, leaning in for another kiss. The sopapillas tip out of their container. That’ll be sticky, difficult to get out of the comforter. But Derek doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and soon enough, neither does Scott.

-

Derek wears reading glasses in the morning and kisses Scott’s temple when he hands over a mug of coffee. He’s cuddly, dragging Scott out of his chair and into Derek’s lap where Derek can rub his cheek against Scott’s head and read the newspaper.

“Fuddy-duddy,” says Scott. The morning light in the loft is gorgeous, soft and fractured and spilling across Derek’s face, highlighting every crease and freckle. He laughs, suddenly, stuck with memories.

“What?” Derek’s brows scrunch, a bit.

“Nothing.” Scott grins. “Just… I was remembering what a dick you were back in high school.”

Derek snorts a laugh. “Hey!”

“Remember--oh my God--remember that line you gave me, when we like _first_ met.” Scott drops his voice to a low mockery. “You think I’m a hammer kid? Huh? No, no, it was like--I look like a hammer? Then why’re you treating me like a tool.” Scott lets out a peel out laughter as Derek groans. “Who says stuff like that? God, you’re so weird. I can’t believe I like you.” Scott shakes his head at his own bad judgment, steals a slurp of Derek’s coffee.

Derek smiles, kisses the tip of Scott’s shoulder, and turns the page towards the financial section.

-

**november, 2015.**

“Okay, don’t freak out.” Derek approaches Scott placatingly with both hands out, one holding his cell phone.

“Okay…”

“So.” Derek swallows. “So Laura wants you to come to our house for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, see, exactly, I told her. You have your mom, your friends. You already have plans, it’s too short notice, I’ll call her back and--”

“Derek,” Scott scrambles off the bed, grabbing his empty hand. “Hey, it’s fine. I can fit in a couple different dinners. It’s Thanksgiving after all.” He pauses. “Do _you_ want me there?”

Derek blinks. “Yeah, I’d--yeah. Are you sure?”

Scott smiles. “Absolutely.”

-

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” says Scott. He adjusts Derek’s tie for the thousandth time, certain he’ll never be over the novelty of _Derek Hale_ wearing a button up, khakis, and a purple tie.

Derek exhales a long suffering sigh. His eyes say, _this is my hell._ Scott scoots in closer and presses a soft kiss to his jaw.

Derek’s mouth twitches, eyes melting. Scott smiles to himself and knocks on the door.

Cora swings it open at once, beautiful and put together in a loose black dress. “Buttface is here. And Scott!” She grins and hauls Scott inside with a hug.

“Scott!” Laura pops out of the kitchen, whisking a bowl of creamy potatoes, beaming seraphically. She looks like something out of a 1950s cooking magazine, with her up-do and floral apron and impeccable red manicure. “You look so handsome! Cora, please, take his coat, get him something to drink.”

Cora rolls her eyes but hangs Scott’s jacket up in a hall closet and pours him out a glass of hard cider.

“Thanks,” he says, toasting her glass with a tiny clink.

She grins, links arms with him, and walks him towards the dining room. “How do you want to go through the baby pictures? Chronological or least to most embarrassing?”

Derek swears under his breath. Laura pops out again, stabbing the air at Derek with a wooden spoon. “Derek, please, have some respect for our guest.”

Derek stares at her. She stares back, stony. The cracks in his impertinence are practically visible. Cora leans in to speak quietly against Scott’s ear. “Don’t feel bad if you curse tonight, Laura acts like Martha Stewart in front of people she doesn’t know but I promise she’s tougher and fouler than any sailor.”

Scott smiles gratefully at Cora as Derek grits out, “Sorry.”

Laura turns to Scott. “Derek didn’t mention any allergies or food restrictions, but if there is something please let me know, I still have time to make adjustments.”

Scott shakes his head. “No, I’m fine, but thank you. Everything smells incredible,” he adds, earnestly.

Her smile softens, she says, “Thank you,” and disappears back into the kitchen.

Cora nudges him with her elbow. “Come on, you’ve got to see Derek’s wolf phase.”

Scott’s eyebrows shoot up. “You had a wolf phase?” He and Cora sit closely on the couch and she pulls out her phone, opening up an album labeled _Dweeb Lord._ “Don’t tell me you wore ears.”

Derek groans and knocks back a full cup of cider to two hard gulps.

Cora grins wickedly and selects the first picture. “_And_ a tail.”

Scott snorts cider through his nose. Cora cackles. Derek says, “I’m going to go drown myself in turkey grease.”

-

“I’m thankful that the business is doing well. And that my hydrangeas are holding up in the cold weather.” Laura's eyes flick between Cora and Derek, who both tense up. “And I’m thankful to have my family here, with me. I know we’re not all here but I--” A rough cough clears her throat. Her fingers tighten around the mason jar glass. “But I know we’re all here in spirit, and I’m thankful to spend every moment I can with my brother and sister. And,” she looks to Scott, smile flattening, but eyes still bright with emotion, “I’m glad to welcome a new extension to that family into our home.”

Cora says, “God, could you be more emo, sis.” Her mascara smudges at the corners, voice thick.

Laura waves her hand. “Come on, come on, it’s all your turn.”

“I’m thankful Uncle Peter is all but--”

“_Cora_,” hisses Laura. The table jumps and Cora winces, hand ducking under the tablecloth to rub at her shin.

“Fine. I’m thankful for my cute girlfriend and my good grades and my dorky brother and my super cool sister.”

Derek studies the lip of his glass in silence so Scott jumps in, says, “I’m thankful to be welcomed into such a wonderful home by three amazing people. I’m thankful for my friends and my mom and for this killer food.” Cora laughs and sounds off her agreement, sending her and Scott into another lament about how good the mashed potatoes look. Laura grins, pleased, but humbly tries to shush them.

“I’m thankful,” says Derek, cutting through their laughter. They quiet and look to him. “I’m thankful that I’m not smoking this Thanksgiving.” Everyone cheers and raises their glass. “I’m thankful my snot nosed little sister is happy.” Cora rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “And that Laura is kicking ass per usual.” Laura kisses her bicep, flips her hair. “And uh, I’m thankful that I met Scott McCall. And that the Cowboys are having such an abysmal season.”

Cora and Laura hoot and everyone moves their glass forward, clinking and cheering. Scott takes a long sip, cheeks flushed, staring at the bottom of his cup rather than Derek, whose eyes burn Scott’s neck.

“Dig in!” Laura says, and so they do.

-

Derek leads Scott up to his bedroom, after dinner and football and the most violent game of Pictionary he’s ever played. They sit side by side on the bed, thighs pressed together, hands clasped quietly in their lap.

Scott says, “It’s so weird to think you used to jerk off in this room.”

Derek falls backwards against the bed with a spectacular eye roll.

“Seriously! What _did_ teenage Derek get up to, huh? I bet you were cute.” Derek smirks, a little. “And _such_ a little shit.”

“I was not.”

“You were; you still are.”

“Am not.”

Scott sticks his tongue out. “Are too.” Derek lunges, grabbing Scott around the middle, pinning him to the sheets in one smooth second. Scott grins. “I win.”

“Um,” says Derek, eyebrow lifting, all imperious and condescending. The look is such pure and classic Derek it makes Scott want to laugh. How did he ever even become friends with this asshole? “I’m the one on top.”

Now, Scott does laugh. Then, he kisses Derek; thorough, dirty, gasping and rutting up against him. His lips brush, trembling, against Derek’s mouth, hands shaking around the sides of his face. “_God_,” he says, voice low, rough, desperate. “_Derek_, please, fuck, fuck, I _need_\--” He arches, writhes, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, brows pinching in pleasure. His eyes fall open, bitten-pink lips panting for breath. “Derek.”

Derek’s eyes are black, his hands fists in the sheets by Scott’s head, body practically vibrating with reserve energy above Scott.

Scott grins, satisfied. “So… who won?”

“_Jesus_ _fucking Christ_.” And Derek’s kissing him, hungry for a feast, and well, it’s Thanksgiving right? Who’s Scott not to indulge him, a little.

But, just as Scott’s shirt comes off and his hands start gliding south, Derek says, “By the way, I’m sorry I was rude during dinner,” says Derek.

Scott pulls back, surprised. “What? You weren’t.” Derek rolls his eyes and leans in but Scott jerks back further. “Seriously, Derek why’d you say that? I mean you’re… y’know. You. But you’re not _mean_.”

Derek’s eyes flicker away. He huffs and drops his forehead to Scott’s shoulder. “You’re… fuck, shut up and let me fuck you in my childhood bedroom, would you?”

Scott laughs, then clamps his hand over his mouth. “This Thanksgiving I’m thankful you’re so horny.”

“What are you, twelve?”

Scott makes a face. Derek laughs, kisses him anyway.

-

Scott creeps down early in the morning, kissing Derek’s sleeping forehead, to start a cup of coffee for them both. Their machine is weird though, and he hits the wrong button and it starts spitting up hot water and Scott’s on the verge of panic when a hand gently moves him aside and unplugs it.

Laura doesn’t glance at him, just says, “Sit. I’ll make it.” And Scott, somewhat helplessly, does.

He sits at the table and drums his fingers quietly, watching and then not watching her, waiting for the awkwardness to consume him. Finally, she joins him with two steaming mugs, making no effort not to stare at him, openly scrutinizing.

“I renovated it,” she says. She waves a hand around. “The house, did you know? There were contractors for the wiring, some insulation, the bigger projects. But I built the stair banister, I sanded the floors and painted every wall in and outside of this house. I collected the ash and lined the garden out there with it. I put in these cabinets, I cut all those picture frames.”

“Wow,” says Scott. He tries to imagine it, a one woman army with nothing but a garage filled with power tools and determination, rebuilding a house from the ground up; a phoenix of plaster and nails.

She runs a flat palm along the smooth, blue edge of the kitchen wall, mouth soft. “Derek doesn’t understand it. Cora doesn’t really remember, she lived here then she lived at my apartment until I finished furnishing this place, and then this was home again. But Derek--he wanted to tear it down, at first. And now… he still doesn’t get it, I know. It’s okay. But this is our home. This is my home.” She glances at Scott with hard eyes. “I won’t let anyone take it from me.”

Scott feels inadequate under her gaze. He doesn’t know what to offer, what words to say, if he should smile or look somber. But he knows something about family, about rebirth, even if it’s different than what she’s experienced. He reaches out, slow, and folds his fingers around her free hand.

They sit in the pearly dawn, warm hands grasping each other over the table, coffee cooling. Laura smiles at him, her broad shoulders sinking against the back of her chair, a few strands of hair escaping her bobby pins and flickering across her face.

-

**december, 2015.**

“So,” says Allison, brows waggling. She grins widely, nudging at Scott with her elbow. “How long has it been official?”

“What?”

“Between you and Derek. I mean, we all thought you got together for real at Lydia’s Independence Day party, but Malia said Derek said you hadn’t. But c’mon, I saw him looking at you when he dropped you off. How long?”

Scott shakes his head. “We’re not dating.”

Allison stares, mouth thinning.

“We’re not!” he insists. “Honestly, Allison, you know I’d tell you. But we’re just good friends who have sex.”

“Right,” she says, slowly. “Two good friends who have been having sex for over a year, and sleep at each other’s place and hang out all the time and don’t date anyone else.”

“I…” Scott stares into his cup, the flecks of nutmeg floating in his eggnog. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

She nudges him, softer this time. “Is that… maybe something you want? To talk to him about?”

“I--”

“Hey!” Stiles waves and wraps them both in a quick hug. “What’s a Stilinski gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Scott laughs and leads Stiles to Allison’s kitchen, feeling her watch them. He tries to shake off her words, focusing on the night ahead of him. Derek is ringing in the New Year with Cora and her friends and it’s Allison’s turn to host a holiday party, so Scott is looking forward to drinking eggnog until he’s confident enough to dance and welcome the new year with all his friends. He definitely does _not_ want to think about anything Allison just said, however, so he helps himself to another cup when he fixes one for Stiles, as well.

Everyone trickles in, and they play a nasty game of Cards Against Humanity. Kira, Scott, and Stiles nearly murder each other in Mario Kart (Kira is victorious, obviously) and Isaac starts talking about his new scarf before 10, so everyone has to do a shot. It’s nearly all of Scott’s favorite people in one room. He is surrounded, loved, happy, and really, really loves eggnog.

Boyd dances with him until Scott is sweating, grinning wide and bright, and has to tap out to catch his breath. Boyd twirls him under his arm and off to the side with a smile and a wink, and Scott goes, breathless with laughter. He stumbles down the hall, falling into Allison’s guest room. He plops down on the bed, still smiling. The party sounds trickle in, and he loves the sound of them having fun, yelling and laughing.

A sound catches his attention at the half-opened door. Stiles smiles at him, crossing the room to plop down next to him. The bed creaks beneath them, sending them into a fit of laughter.

Scott has to try to catch his breath again. They’re lying side by side, heads bent toward each other, noses so close Scott eyes almost cross just to look at him. Stiles glows in the soft slant of light coming in from the hall, a flush high on his freckled cheeks. He really is Scott’s absolute best friend on this whole earth.

Scott must say as much without realizing it, because Stiles says, “Me too.” And then he looks at him, this deep, imploring look that Scott can’t quite parse.

“Stiles,” he starts to say.

Then, Stiles kisses him.

“Oh,” says Scott. The eggnog warms him, spreading from his lips onward. He feels dizzy.

“I love you,” says Stiles, eyes huge.

“Happy New Year!” screams Allison, barrelling into the room with party kazoos in hand and plastic beaded necklaces swinging from her neck. She smacks kisses to both of their cheeks and shouts for Lydia, who flips on the lights and jumps on top of Allison. They’re pulled from the bed and passed around as everyone floods in and celebrates.

“Happy New Year, Scott!” Kira yells, crushing him in a quick hug. Malia piles on, then drags Stiles into a hug. Kira and Malia peel off to get in their second and third first kiss of the year, hopping around with everyone else as the music blares and people scream with directionless joy. Erica and Isaac are trying to carry Boyd around the room on their shoulders. Boyd is laughing so hard he has tears streaming down his face. Lydia finds the karaoke microphone and starts to sing the wrong lyrics to the song, Allison harmonizing slightly more on key. Scott can’t breathe.

Stiles doesn’t blink so neither does Scott. The whole world is alight with hope, the promise of new beginnings.

Scott spins, and retches into Allison’s fake fern.

-

“Uh, so,” says Stiles, awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his head. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Sorry,” says Scott, a little miserably. He gargles and spits and rubs his hand over his still queasy stomach. “I guess eggnog and sushi aren’t the best pair. I should’ve skipped dinner.” Dinner. With Derek, only hours ago. Feels like a lifetime.

Stiles nods, not over the threshold of Allison’s guest bathroom, but hovering close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him. Scott could reach out and--

“Hey, about, uh,” Stiles looks down, scrubbing still at his hair, “about what happened. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Scott draws his brows together. “What? Stiles, don’t you think--I mean, we should talk--”

“Nope! It’s all good. We’re good. Eggnog, you know? Lydia makes a potent brew. It’s New Year’s, buddy. That’s all that was, right?”

“Right,” says Scott, slowly.

Stiles’ hand starts for Scott’s shoulder but freezes half-way and falls back to his side. “Good, yeah, cool. See? No worries.”

-

**january, 2016.**

And so what, if Scott and Stiles have to cancel on their plans more often than normal? It’s not weird, it’s not that they’re being weird. It’s just that life happens.

And if Scott stares at Derek as he sleeps, guilt and unease gnawing his gut like a ravenous animal, so what? It’s nothing. It’s nothing, and he tells himself this for weeks, the tension in his ribs pulling tauter every day. It’s a surprise it takes so long to snap.

Derek’s curled around him in bed. Scott can’t see him, but feels him all over, the warm strength of his body, the small sigh of his breath on the back of Scott’s neck. When he closes his eyes he can feel nutmeg on his lips, can hear the bells of auld lang syne clear as day. Derek tried a new homemade falafel recipe that turned out really quite good and Scott cannot live with this imbalance of knowledge between them.

“Derek,” he whispers, urgently. “You awake?”

“Mmm,” sighs Derek, pulling Scott into him. Scott counts to three, eyes squeezed shut even in the dark. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He sounds more alert now, shifting like maybe he’s going to try and turn them face to face.

“Stiles kissed me,” Scott blurts. Derek’s hands freeze in the middle of rubbing circles into Scott’s skin. “I’m sorry. I don’t, I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. It was at New Year’s, and nothing happened after so I just, I didn’t know--he also said he… that he, uh, loves me. So. I don’t know. I wanted you to know. I thought… you should know.”

Silence fills dark room with a few, heart wracking moments.

“So.” Derek says. “Are you in love with him?”

“I…” Scott does love him, he _does_, but he’s not--Stiles loves him, and _fuck_, they just glazed over New Year’s like it didn’t happen but it _did_ and-- “I don’t think so.” But maybe he could be. It’s _Stiles_, for God’s sake. Stiles is so many pieces of Scott himself, if they tried, it wouldn’t be hard. But does he _want_ to be in love with him? That constricts his chest, dries his mouth, makes his head hurt with too much contrary shouting.

“Okay,” says Derek, slowly. He rolls Scott over, pushes him into the mattress, and frames Scott’s body with his own, big hands cupping Scott’s face. Scott opens his eyes.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“Yeah.” Derek is smiling, just a little, just enough. His hands slide down Scott’s neck, craning down to kiss Scott’s chin. Scott stills him with a touch to his chest. “Look, if you wanted to be with him, you would. I don’t… I don’t need all of you Scott, all the time. I know I’ve said some things to you, before, that would make a strong case for my…”

“Super hot possessive streak?” Scott supplies, desperate for lightness, for anything but the heavy, heady weight of Derek’s dark eyes.

“Jealousy,” says Derek, stark in it. “It wasn’t a good look, I know. But I’m not that guy now. I just want you to be happy Scott.”

“You are…” Scott touches Derek’s cheeks, his brows. He wants to place delicate kisses all over them, and so he does. “I don’t know. I’m kind of spiralling out here.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Derek chuckles low in his chest. “You’re not exactly a world class poker player.”

Scott’s eyes drift shut again. The only place for secrets is the dark. “I just,” he confesses, voice dropping to a scarce whisper again. “I just--I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Derek collects Scott’s face in his hands once more, pressing their foreheads together briefly. His breath breaks gooseflesh over Scott’s skin.

“I can decide what hurts me. You…” he touches the ends of Scott’s hair, thumb grazing Scott’s lip. “You never have.”

Scott doesn’t know what he expected at the start of this. He doesn’t know if that means the conversation or years ago, standing on the side of the road with a flat, not a goddamn clue what would happen next. But he’s never expected Derek to do nearly anything he’s ever done, least of all embrace Scott with so much tenderness while Scott’s heart is physically tearing in two.

Scott makes the mistake of looking up into Derek’s eyes, which are bright and dilated and sincere. Bad idea, bad idea, monumentally terrible idea.

His hand spans across Scott’s neck, thumb nudging Scott’s jaw up. Scott’s mouth parts and Derek leans in, his breath brushing across the space above Scott’s upper lip. Scott should be thinking rationally, should take a step back, consider the whole situation. But Derek can tune him to this frequency with just a look and suddenly Scott’s tipping his head back, meeting Derek in a searing kiss, not thinking about a single goddamn thing outside of Derek’s hands, his mouth, his thighs, him, him, him. The clutter and fear falls away and it’s all Derek and soft moonlight spilling in from high windows above and the familiar feeling of being undone.

-

**february, 2016.**

Derek grumbles.

“Listen, Ebenezer, I know your misanthropic ass hates the corporate money machine that is Valentine's,” says Scott, rifling through various hokey, flowery, be-hearted cards in their spinny display rack, “but you said you’d come shopping with me, so it’s your fault.”

“It’s pointless. And you’re not even trapped in the romanticism of it, you’re feeding the beast for your _friends_.”

“Yes,” says Scott, not bothering to control his eye roll. He drops his selection of cards in the shopping basket hanging off his arm and cruises towards shelves with cute stuffed animals. “How dare I want my friends to know how much I love them?”

Derek huffs. “They know, Scott, trust me.”

Scott warms, a little, because he does know that they know, and it’s such a good feeling. “Well. Still.” He grabs an adorable stuffed coyote and fox hugging a big, velvety red heart and drops it in the basket. “Hey,” he says, grinning suddenly. “Look, it’s you.”

Derek scowls. Scott holds the Grumpy Cat plush up next to his face, snaps a photo, and texts it to Danny, who he’s confident will make sure everyone sees it.

Derek snatches it away and glares at its fluffy whiskers. “This is ridiculous.” He glances at the companion cards on the shelf next to all the Grumpy Cat plushes. “‘Let’s hate everyone together.’”

“Aww.” Scott claps his free hand over his heart. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Derek’s frown deepens but the tips of his ears get red. He huddles down in his ridiculous overcoat and throws the cat back on the shelf. “C’mon. We’ve got to finish your soulless shopping before the movie starts.”

Scott sticks his tongue out. “Cynic.”

“Romantic,” accuses Derek.

“Thank you,” says Scott.

-

“Are they closed?”

“They’re closed. What the hell are you--”

“Okay, okay--a few more steps and--open!”

Scott sings _ta-da!_ and shimmies his fingers away from Derek’s eyes. Derek blinks.

“I know it’s corny, but I want you to know I only fed the beast on your behalf for one of these things, the rest are totally boring and unromantic.”

“I don’t…” Derek treads lightly through the maze of fairy lights and vanilla tea light candles.

Scott follows him, grinning. “I know Valentine’s Day is technically tomorrow, but it’s Friday night and I thought it’d be fun to do something nice. Danny and I are going to lunch together because all the rest of our friends are in love with each other or completely nihilistic or both, so…” He trails behind Derek, slowing a bit at Derek’s lack of reaction. “I hope it’s all right.” Did he go overboard? He was trying to be obnoxious but in funny way, not a truly irritating way.

“It’s--” Derek spins, reaches out, stops himself. He grins, picks up the Grumpy Cat plush propped up on the couch. “It’s great. Really, Scott.”

“And!” Scott bounds past him, to the dinner table, embolden by Derek’s response. “The pièce de résistance.” He pulls the top off the silver serving tray with dramatic flair. A delicious bounty of street truck food steams on it. “The flans are in the fridge. The third one is mine, because you have no idea how hard it was to track them down on a Friday night--they really need to work on managing their Twitter--so I think I earned it.”

Derek steps towards him.

“Oh, all right,” says Scott, grinning. “I’ll share it. But I don’t know if we’ll even get to dessert, I almost ordered one of everything on the--”

“I love you,” says Derek, eyes huge and glowing with the candles’ reflections.

Scott’s throat closes to a pin. His hands slacken around the lid. “Derek,” is all he can muster.

Derek’s smile fades, starting at the edges like an old photograph, until it’s gone entirely, features sharp and set.

“Right.”

“Wait, I--”

“No, no--no, don’t, please. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“I--I’m sorry, I--”

“It’s nothing you should feel sorry for. But I’m in love with you,” says Derek, with a barbed laugh, “and that’s not what you want, right?”

Scott can’t stand his own voice, pathetic, desperate. “I don’t know what I want,” he says, quiet.

“Right. I knew--I know that. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“No, don’t. Don’t do that. You mean--” What does Derek mean to him? How can Scott begin to describe it? “Hold on, okay. Just. Give me a second to catch up.” And in that second, Scott feels it: he hears Allison’s words, and the coffee-fresh breath of Derek in the mornings. Derek’s eyes in the sun and his hands, everywhere. Derek at daybreak and at night. All the surprises he offers Scott. All the quiet, dark moments between them. And Scott considers it all, plainly.

Considers how he doesn’t know when, if ever, he wants this to end.

Derek’s not looking at him as he continues, “You shouldn’t have done this, Scott.”

“Oh.” Just like that--instantaneously, all the soft fluttering hope rising in him deflates. His heart is racing, he starts to feel a little sick.

“I think we should… we should talk. Probably.” Derek falls heavily into his couch.

“Right.” How did this go so wrong, so fast? How did he get this so wrong?

“Come here,” Derek gestures next to him and Scott goes, of course he does, he’s moving before his brain can catch up. They don’t touch. The space between them burns. “Please don’t freak out.”

Scott’s trying to get a degree. He’s trying to meet Boyd for their weekly Saturday brunch and keep his study group going and have a rematch with Kira in Mario Kart and his best friend and his--

Stiles and Derek are in love with him and he wants them both equally but with different, messy parts of himself, all strung together and knotted up; he wants more than he has the space inside himself to hold. It scares him, all of it. And it’s not fair, none of it.

“It’s okay.” Derek reaches for the Grumpy Cat on the table in front of them, touching its ear briefly. All the lights and flame and thought seem cruel, suddenly, a taunt that Scott never intended. “Scott. It’s okay.”

“The last thing I want is to hurt you.” Scott says, the most honest thing he can surface at the moment. Derek sits, still so close. His hands close around Scott’s wrists, thumbs rubbing circles against Scott’s pulsepoint.

“I know.” Derek smiles, only a little strained. “Scott I want you to be honest: what do you want from this? From our… from us?”

Scott says, “If you… if you’d asked me a couple months ago, I think I would have said I want exactly what we have.”

“And now?”

“And now…” And now everything was real, in the daylight, and dangerous. Now these feelings in his chest were asking for names. Now Stiles sat on the tip of his tongue like a thorny flower. Now Derek was looking at him in a way Scott didn’t want to see but didn’t want to turn away from.

“Because I want…” Derek lets go of his hand to lean forward against his knees. “I want to be with you, Scott. I, uh, I do love you. I want you to know that. But I don’t… I don’t know if I’m capable of being in a real relationship. I don’t know if I can ever do that, even with… even with you.”

“Oh,” says Scott. The breath just keeps getting knocked out of him. His mind swims with this. “Oh.”

“And if… if you and--” Scott glances away; Derek breaks off his original sentence. “If there’s someone who can give you a real chance at a stable relationship? I want that for you. I really do want you to be happy. And I don’t think--even though, god, Scott, it’s like a gift to say it--I love you, but I don’t think I can give that to you.”

-

Derek _loves_ him. And not like--not the light, bursting love that overwhelms Scott when Boyd hugs him, when Allison laughs, when Malia and Erica loop their arms through his, when Lydia texts him political rants at three in the morning. It’s not that, it’s not the love he holds for Isaac’s long, snarking voicemails on his phone or Kira’s awesome, detailed comic book plot theories. It’s not all of them together, burgers and beer and too many orders of fries, a built family, a patchwork of hearts. It’s something that Scott holds the taste of in memory, but it’s not--well, he doesn’t _think_\--but _what_ if--

And _Derek_, it’s _Derek_. Black nights, adrenaline, cherry Derek. All leather, danger, reading glasses, calloused hands. Derek’s unreasonable Camaro, the whine of an engine wanting to be unleashed. Fingers and nails points on Scott’s hips, biting tiny moons and pressing dwarf-star bruises into his skin. Eyes too tender. Soft stubbly kisses. The laughter, God. The laughter. Derek’s smooth as a mirror, but with Scott he can crack and laugh. And Scott loves it. Derek is a wingbeat inside Scott’s palms, something pushing outward with every breath, growing.

-

Stiles held Scott all night, after his dad split. Stiles has been there for every memory, a shadow cut under his whole life. Separation is inconceivable; what are they, if not two parts of a whole? Stiles knows his soul. And with Stiles, it would be a rich, deep, expansive thing. It would be something they could build on--not like house of cards Derek, who can love and only offer up so much of himself while taking on all of Scott. There are parts of Derek that are untouchable, unshareable. He doesn’t want the kind of relationship Scott is used to, the grow old on the porch kind. But Stiles--

-

He doesn’t want to compare them. It isn’t fair, and it accomplishes nothing, and, worst of all, it doesn’t even provide him with a tidy little calculation of his affections. It’s all a mess of silly string and melted candle wax. He wants, more than them, to go back in time and avoid this all in the first place.

-

**march, 2016.**

“Spill,” demands Lydia.

Kidnapping is a strong term, but it’s fairly close to what’s happened. Scott was perfectly happy, moping away his Saturday afternoon in a pity party when all of the sudden Lydia dragged him to her apartment, where cake and vodka and four of his friends sat, staring at him expectantly.

“Look, Scott.” Allison’s eyes are gentle. “We’ve noticed something between you and Stiles, and you aren’t… something’s up. Please talk to us.”

All in a rush, Scott says, “My best friend and on again off again fuck buddy have both confessed their love to me and I don't have a clue what to do.”

“Damn,” says Allison. Malia hands over the plate of cake.

Scott takes a proffered plastic fork from Kira and scraps a hunk of icing off the top, licks it from the prongs of the fork.

“Screw men,” Lydia toasts. Everyone quickly raising their glass to clink with hers. Scott taps his fork against the cluster.

“Women are much better,” says Malia, with soft, adoring eyes at Kira, who smiles and leans in for a kiss.

“To lesbians!” says Lydia.

“We're not lesbians,” says Kira.

“Speak for yourself,” says Malia.

“Yes but.” Lydia gestures. “All the same, to the lesbians we wish were here!”

Allison blushes and cheers. Scott raises an eyebrow at her but meets them all in another round of clicking cups.

“Wait,” he says. “I'm a man.”

They all consider this.

“Screw all men who aren't Scott!” Lydia amends. They cheer with renewed vigor, vodka sloshing on the floor.

-

“So?” asks Malia.

“So?” parrots Scott.

“I think she’s asking what you’re gonna do about it,” says Kira.

A bad rom-com plays on Lydia’s flat screen. Scott’s heart constricts. Allison and Lydia each hold one of his hands, Malia and Kira curled up in a blanket nest on the floor in front of the couch.

“Honestly?” he says, frowning. “I have no idea.” He closes his eyes, leans into them, and tries not to feel like everything’s falling apart.

-

**may, 2016.**

“Hey,” says Stiles, standing at Scott’s doorstep somewhat sheepishly. “Can I come in?”

Scott swing the door wide to allow space, heart clenching at the very sight of Stiles. He misses him in a sharp, serious way that he’d almost started to get used to.

Stiles sits on the edge of Scott’s bed with a creak. Scott sits on the opposite side, staring down at his hands.

“I hate this, Scotty. You feel a million miles away.”

“Me too,” says Scott. “I miss you.”

“Me too.” The silence stretches between them for a long while, not awkward but not comfortable either. Finally, Stiles raises a hesitant hand towards Scott, resting his fingers over Scott’s very carefully. “I don’t know if I want to take the words back or if I wish I told you sooner. But I want us back, Scott. I want my best friend back.”

“I do too.” Scott exhales loudly with some relief. They’re not so far apart, it seems, after all.

“Right? Okay, good. And do you… I mean have you thought about, what you want with--with us?” Stiles’ hand curls softly around Scott’s. The world’s axis flips again, and Scott is right back where he started.

Scott says, “I don’t know. I mean, I…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, Stiles. You know you’re my best friend, ever. Of course I love you. But I’m not…” _Derek, Derek, Derek._ Don’t say his name, goddamnit. “It’s just, this isn’t… I don’t think this is that.”

“Then what is this?” There’s something desperate in his voice. Stiles’ hands clench, unclench. He can’t meet Scott’s eyes anymore. His frustration, his pain. Scott wants, more than anything in the world, to make it all go away.

“Please.” Something’s breaking and Scott can’t let it, he can’t. Not this. Not them. “You’re my best friend Stiles, and you’re right, you’re right there’s… something, with us. But there’s a lot that I don’t even know, I don’t--I don’t understand what I want but _you_\--” He reaches out helplessly. “You’re my best friend.” The words are a prayer.

“I know,” says Stiles, very quietly. “But I don’t know if that’s enough anymore.”

“Well, it’s, it’s got to be. It has to be.”

“Why? Why can’t you just say it, just tell me what you want. Is it _him_? Is it because you… because you and he...”

“I don’t know!” Scott explodes. “I don’t know, I'm sorry. What do you want? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to _choose_,” snaps Stiles. _I want you to choose me._ The word he doesn’t say echoes terribly, clear as a bell in the space between them.

Scott deflates, arms floating back to his sides, wrung out and exhausted. “I didn’t ask for this,” he says. “I didn’t want--”

“What? For me to fall in love with you?” Stiles’ laugh is poisonous. “Sorry it’s such a fucking imposition.”

“Stiles, you know that’s not what I--”

“God, just. Just. Just pick one of us, Scott. Get me out of this purgatory.” He clears his throat, roughly, hands spasming to fists. “Even if it’s no.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” says Scott, small and scared and truthful. “You’re my best friend.”

Stiles fights it, his face twisting, conflicted. But he reaches out, touching his fingertips to the back of Scott’s hand. “You’re not going to lose me. But I…” He blinks, fast, fingers curling sharply over Scott’s wrist. “I don’t want to lose _you_.”

Scott aches for him, sorrow fills his mouth and all the crevices of his skull. “You won’t. We won’t, right? You and me, through thick and thin.”

Stiles hiccups a laugh and drags Scott forward. They gravitate to each other, carefully brushing each other’s cheeks, every touch overwhelmingly tender, delicate. The cracks and fissures between them quake with want, with something unspoken and bright and soft-hearted. Stiles knocks their foreheads together, fingers flexing in Scott’s hair, at Scott’s jawline, used to more but afraid to reach for it.

“Til death do us part,” he says, warm breath on Scott’s chin.

-

**july, 2016.**

Scott’s not avoiding Derek, he’s just been picking up a lot of clinic hours over the summer. It’s just when Derek texts him, now, Scott’s chest is filled with cement and he forgets how to breathe.

Derek occupies his mind, his space. Here, where he’s touched. Here, where he’s laughed. Here, where he would say something off-color and funny. Mostly, Derek occupies his fantasies. Scott can’t help himself: once the thought escaped it was impossible to contain again, and so he sees it all. Every possible, potential future. Moving in together. Buying a house, a fixer-upper. Derek likes projects and could go to Laura for advice. They kiss in mornings, chaste over coffee, lazy in Sunday sunshine. Date nights, anniversaries. HOA meetings. Ugly couple costumes at Halloween that Derek hates. Falling richly, deeply in love and staying there.

All the things Derek claims he can’t give. How can you love someone and retain that kind of distance? It haunts Scott. He can’t puzzle it. He’s sliding further and further down the rabbit hole. Things with Stiles has cooled--Scott wants to be optimistic and believe that a healing between them has begun because, at night after a long day at work, when he closes his eyes there’s only one man on his brain and they both have finally realized what this means.

Okay, so Scott is absolutely avoiding Derek. But, like some awful moth to the flame, he can’t stay away for long.

The trip to the loft is anticipatory, leaving him buzzing with nerves. A blush heats his face as he raises his hand to knock--what if it’s all different, if everything strange, strained between them now? What if that fire has cooled to ash, just a memory Scott’s clinging to.

He knocks. It’s only a collection of seconds until the lock scrapes, the door swings open. Derek adjusts his gaze, trying to mask his surprise.

“Hi,” says Scott, a little dumbstruck now that he’s actually here. Now that Derek is an arms-length away.

Derek steps back to allow Scott in. “Hey,” he says, and leads Scott towards the kitchen after he shuts the door. He fiddles with the coffee maker. “You wanna cup?”

“No. Derek. Look at me.”

He does. Easy, turning right around to meet Scott’s eyes. The softest version of a smile lifts his lips. “Okay. What now?” A simple question with a complex answer. Scott wishes he had accepted the coffee, had something in front of him to distract himself with.

“I want to take you on a date.”

Derek’s smile vanishes; something pained takes its place. “Scott…”

“No--no. Hold on. You can’t, you can’t just make a declaration of love and then tell me you want everything to stay the same. That you can’t have a relationship but you want to be with me. We’ve done our entire…. Whatever, _us_ so backwards I think we should start at the beginning. Let me take you out, on a real date. Let’s just… be real, with each other. See what happens.”

“Scott, I’m…” Derek’s tone is sad as he speaks, something mournful and resigned about him. “I’m damaged goods. You can’t just date someone with my past, my history. Why do you think I still live, alone, in my loft? I’m not… I can’t do it. I’ve _tried_.” Scott’s first thought is of Braeden, and he feels his resolve take a bit of a hit. Their relationship was real, seemed easy and loving, and still they decided to move on from each other. If they couldn’t make it work, maybe Derek’s right. But…

“That was years ago. That was a different person. I’m standing here, me. With you. And I’m telling you, you’re wrong. And if you’re not, I don’t care. I want to be with you, even it’s not forever.”

That gets some heat out of Derek. “That’s where we disagree, then, because I can’t be without you in my life again, Scott. I don’t want that. I’d rather have a little of you, forever, than all of you for a while. I need… I need you in my life. Do you hear me? I can’t lose you.”

Scott steps forward, Derek leans back. They’re close, not close enough. “You _won’t_.”

“You can’t promise that.” And he’s right, but damn him, damn him for always being two steps out of reach. Either too distant or too stifling. Derek runs on one extreme or the other. Scott is sick of it; he just wants _now_.

“You’re a coward.”

“Yeah. Maybe, probably. I do love you, though.”

“Shut up. You don’t get to say that, _now_.” But now that he has, it’s fed some hungry, dark feeling inside him. Something Scott has no control over. He wants to hear it again, wants to feel it.

“I’ve missed you.” And that’s almost as bad, sends a rush of pins-and-needles to his gut. Derek levels a heavy, inviting look. A half-smirk. Damn him. Scott can feel the temperature between them change, every wall melting. Scott can feel the challenge of Derek’s stare: _did you miss me?_ He wants Scott to say it, wants Scott to admit it.

Scott really should be immune, by now, but it feels like the first time Derek ever looked at him like that: the feeling of being _seen_, of being known. He says, “Come here.”

Derek strides across the room and picks Scott up by the hips. Scott’s legs wrap around him automatically; Derek’s hands are hot and strong under him as he walks them back to the counter. He shifts Scott up to sit there but Scott can’t let go, ankles locked, hands clutching at Derek’s face. He hates how his body is magnetized, mesmerized, memorized by this man’s body.

Derek’s jaw is locked, his brow furrowed. He rocks his head back and forth, brushing noses, near missing their lips, as if he wants to screw their foreheads together, fuse brains. Scott’s skin, the whole of him, is burning, prickling with heat under Derek’s touch, his proximity. He wants him closer, closer, too close, he wants to catch fire entirely and turn to coal because of Derek’s mouth.

He clenches and unclenches his hands around Derek’s face, fingers sliding up to twine in Derek’s hair. Every word he wants to say sits like a hot stone in the pit of his belly. He wants to cry and he wants to scream and he wants to be fucked and he wants to have never kissed Derek, not even once, even though the thought hurts, mean and strong in his ribcage. _Please_, he wants to beg. _I’m losing my mind, what have you done to me, either leave me alone or destroy me completely._

“I love you,” says Derek. It sings to Scott’s hot blood, the rough drag of the vowels, the pain of his shut eyes, the fierce, scorching honesty. It snags Scott and doesn’t let him go. “That’s it. That’s all I have.”

“Derek,” says Scott, too far gone to care about the whine in his voice, the desperate flex of his fingers as he caresses Derek’s ears, slips his hands back to his hair, trying to find a place to touch that’s enough, that will fill the beating, breathing hole in his chest.

“I don’t care,” he says, opening his eyes. His stare is intense yet gentle. He demands Scott’s attention but Scott feels worshipped, not analyzed. “I really don’t. I’m going to love you tomorrow and for the rest of my life, no matter what you say. And I’m okay with that. I don’t care if you choose him or me or neither or both or yourself. You can move to Monaco and raise dolphins. You can become a hermit or an astronaut. I’m going to love you. Okay? This,” he grabs one of Scott’s hands and presses it firmly above his heart, “you feel this? You own me. I want to fuck you and kiss you and be your friend and let you ruin me. I’d let you ruin me everyday.”

“Fuck, don’t. God. You can’t _say_ that.”

“I don’t care. I mean it.” His fingers curl, tight, around Scott’s. “I mean it. I’m not saying I’ll be a bunch of roses about it--” Scott snorts, Derek grins. “--but I mean it, Scott. You can find yourself a nice spouse and fuck me on the side until we’re eighty, if you’d like.”

Scott almost draws back, mouth curling in disgust. “I wouldn’t--”

Derek’s grin broadens, all bright white teeth and feral amusement. He drops Scott’s hand to smudge his thumb across Scott’s cheekbone. Scott’s hand clings to Derek’s shirt. “I know you would never. I’m just saying, I’d let you. However much of yourself you give to me, even if it’s nothing, I’ll take it, and gladly give you all of me in return. You gave me a second chance, and I meant what I said, Scott. I want to know you for the rest of my life. I’ll always fight for you.”

“God,” says Scott, wrecked. His nose and eyes prickle hotly and his throat shrinks to a pinhole and he really might cry now, for real, because that’s his fucking life. “Derek. I-I don’t… I want you to be happy…”

Derek laughs, loud and sacrosanct. It echoes across the kitchen and unspools some of the tightly coiled worry in Scott’s chest. “You make me happy,” says Derek, speaking so close his mouth brushes Scott’s with every syllable. “You make me so happy, just knowing you. Just this, with you. Makes me so happy, Scott, you have no idea.” Derek’s thumb glides lower, pressing against Scott’s mouth, strumming gently against his bottom lip. “I love you.”

Scott’s heart lurches. “Stop,” he whispers.

“Why? Why does it matter? I can finally say it and you don’t want to hear it--why? Who does it hurt? It’s not a contract, you don’t owe me anything for loving you. I just want you to know.” He curls his hand, knuckles dragging against the corner of Scott’s mouth. “I just--need you to know.” Their noses bump, Derek hedges closer, floats away. Scales wobbling, drifting towards an equilibrium. Scott’s body is fire and fear and--

He grasps Derek’s face tight between his hands. Derek’s grip is petal soft in response. Scott nudges them together until they are a breath away from kissing. “Say it again,” he demands, gently, gently, aching and terrified and wanting.

“I love--” Live wire skin, tautly pulled guitars strings for a heart. Scott can’t help it, his body is in freefall and on fire and he pulls Derek in, fingers curling around his ears, that final, small space between them vanishing. It’s as if it was never there, it’s as if he’s never done anything _but_ kiss Derek. Scott lives in absences, negative spaces between the boiling points of this: Derek’s rumbling half-growl, his hands falling to Scott’s waist, broad hands over his hip bones, thumbs peeking under the hem of his shirt, Derek’s white-hot mouth branding Scott with kisses. Their lips, their teeth, the tease, the gasps and stuttering thrusts forward, for more. Shared breaths against open mouths in the pause, the dip of wanting _so_ much at once they need to collect themselves. Derek tugs him to the edge of the counter, pressing them chest-to-chest, one hand slipping under his shirt and blazing against the skin of his low-back, the other cupping Scott’s head.

Beard-burn tickles Scott’s neck as Derek arches, dips down and trails sloppy kisses from Scott’s pulse-point to collarbone. “You,” he says, breathing hard, sealing the word against Scott’s skin with his tongue. “You, I love you. I love you, Scott.”

-

Too much, too much, not enough. Scott drags him back into a deep kiss, he can’t stand to hear the words again, already so dangerously close to becoming addicted to the way they sound.

And he needs--fuck, he _needs_ release, emotional, cathartic, physical, he’ll take anything he can get. Right now he needs more and Derek knows, he swears, his hands coming to Scott’s hips and clamping tightly, moving them together, taking control of the pace. Slow, burning, sweat down his spine and licked off his lips. Here he is on top of someone he--someone--and he still can’t get it right, Derek has to take over, he still can’t--he’s never going to get it right, he’s never going to fix what he broke--what he wants, he can’t have, and what he has he--

“Fuck,” he gasps, hands flying off of Derek’s shoulders. “Oh, fuck. S-Stop. Stop--”

Derek’s hands rip away instantly, hovering with uncertainty in front of him as he blinks through he arousal, brows pinching. “Scott? What’s wrong? Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

Scott shakes his head, throat too thick to speak, chest heaving uselessly. He scrambles off the bed and stumbles to his jeans, trembling hands digging around the pockets. He takes a puff from his inhaler and collapses back against the bed, holding his breath.

Derek slips onto the ground next to him, rubs slow, rhythmic circles between his shoulder blades while he puffs and waits and exhales, repeats.

“Damn. First the cigarettes, now my dick. Will we ever figure out how to have sex without giving you an asthma attack?”

Scott swats at him with his free hand, choking back a laugh. Derek laughs for him, presses a soft, smiling kiss on Scott’s shoulder.

He takes a slow, clear breath, and coughs. Derek picks the inhaler out of his hands and sets it on the nightstand, not losing a single beat of his circular kneading. He tugs Scott into the v of his legs, hooks his chin over Scott’s neck, kissing lazily at Scott’s jaw.

“Sorry,” says Scott, wincing as he curls his limbs in on himself. Their skin is tacky with cooling sweat but Derek just snuggles in closer so Scott doesn’t mind. Scott tilts his head, resting their faces together, and laughs. He’s still hard; instead of finding the simplest release in pleasure he’s even more impotently frustrated. He can’t figure out one goddamn thing.

“Don’t be,” says Derek. “Do you want me to…?” He glances down pointedly.

Scott shakes his head, laughs again. “Not really. The mood has been killed and buried and mourned by now. Oh, but--sorry, I can--”

Derek noses at Scott’s neck, grinning. “Nope. I’m fine. You know me, I love cuddling.”

Scott snorts. “You’re an awful cuddler.”

“What?” Derek jerks back, sounding genuinely shocked. “No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re so clingy and big, you crush me when I’m sleeping and you steal the blankets from my feet.”

Derek huffs, offended, in his ear. “Yeah well sometimes you talk in your sleep.”

“What? No I don’t.” Scott’s brows furrow. “Do I?” Derek’s face is blank but his eyes are dancing. “You asshole, I knew I didn’t.”

Derek cracks, grinning. He kisses Scott’s temple. The tenderness makes Scott’s heart swell, his throat get uncomfortably thick. His hands fidget, wanting to reach out for his inhaler.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Scott, it’s really fine. I like having sex with you but I like this, too. We can try again later if you really want to.”

“No, not--I mean, yes, that, but also…” Scott sighs, slumps further against Derek’s chest, turning his head away. “I don’t know. Christ, Derek. You are the most annoying, frustrating, impossible person I’ve ever met. Why can’t this just be simple?”

Derek brings his arms tight around Scott’s middle, knocking his forehead against the bent nape of Scott’s neck. “I’m here. I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I’m here, okay?”

“Yeah.” Scott slips his hands over Derek’s, holding on.

-

**september, 2016.**

_ **New call: Stiles** _

_ **New text: Derek** _

Scott clicks his home screen to black and slips his phone in his pocket.

“So,” asks Kira, “which one?”

“Uh,” Scott says. “The frilly one?”

“You think so?” She drops the swatches in her hands down in front of her, considering. “Hmm. I think you’re right. Okay, one decision down, five million to go.”

Scott smiles, reaches out to squeeze her hand in support. She smiles back, warmly, and then yanks him from the comfy waiting chair and through the aisles of tulle and creamy paper and ink options.

\- 

**october, 2016.**

“Why do I have such good friends,” asks Scott, dimpling. 

“Beats me,” says Allison, grinning and messing with his hair. "Happy birthday, Scott."

Boyd and Erica hold up their terrible sweater. “If you really loved us…” says Boyd.

Scott sighs, and holds his arms over his head. 

Isaac and Lydia cheer. Malia wrestles the beast over his neck and smooths it down his chest.

Kira says, “It looks… I mean, it’s just so colorful!” She grins supportively, giving a thumbs up.

Erica buries her face in Boyd’s shoulder, mascara running down her cheeks, belly shaking with giggles. The sweater is itchy as hell but their reactions almost make wearing it worth it.

Lydia snaps fifty pictures in under a minute until Kira drags her into the pile and they take a huge, group selfie, with Scott their shamed, smiling, sartorial sacrifice center.

“To good friends,” Kira says, kissing Scott quickly on the cheek. Boyd rubs away the sticky lip gloss with a laugh and Kira gets revenge by tackling him and peppering her forehead in pink kisses.

“To good friends!” They all echo, Lydia turning her phone camera on Boyd’s scowl. Erica leans in and gives him a bright red kiss-mark on his cheek, that he conspicuously does not try to wipe away.

Malia hooks her chin over Scott’s shoulder, wrapping him in a warm hug, arms folding over his waist. Everyone else packs in, lifting brightly packaged presents towards him.

“My gift to you is this hug,” says Malia. “And a joint gift from Kira and me. But mostly the hug.”

Kira waves their present in her hands. Scott laughs. “Your girlfriend is topping you, Kira, this is pretty great hug.”

There’s a terrible moment of silence. Scott’s brain catches up with his mouth and he winces.

Isaac opens his mouth. Everyone reaches out, rushing to clamp his mouth shut but it’s too late. “I thought it was Kira who topped,” he says. Groans and ribbons are tossed at him, lobbing gently off his laughing form.

“What? He left it wide open for me. Just like Malia leaves--” Allison and Erica pelt him with handfuls of popcorn until he’s shrieking and running across the kitchen with them in close pursuit.

“I cannot believe I ever slept with him.”

“_What_?” Everyone spins on Lydia.

“It was just the once!” she defends.

Boyd shakes his head. “_I_ can’t believe I’m still sleeping with him.”

Scott says, “Aw, come on. Isaac’s a good guy.”

“Thank you, Scott!” Isaac calls, bolting past them, around the couch, and diving behind Scott’s back.

“Okay, no more throwing things!” Scott declares. “I’m the one who’s going to have to vacuum. This is now a nice, peaceful birthday party where no one will be chased or flicked with food.”

Allison and Erica flop back onto the nest of blankets. Isaac pokes his head up and smacks a noisy kiss to the crown of Scott’s head.

“You are an angel among men.”

“And no more inappropriate comments.” He points sternly at Isaac, who actually looks a little sheepish under Scott’s gaze.

"C'mon," calls Allison, "open mine next!"

\- 

Scott takes stock of the room, all his friends’ sleeping forms, strewn across the couch and the blanket nest, curled into each other for warmth or shivering because _someone_ (Boyd) keeps stealing all the blankets. He smiles softly to himself, picking his way across the room, past Kira and Malia’s spooning and Erica’s goosebumped shoulders and Lydia’s octopus grip on Allison, as silently as possible. His socked feet tip-toe to his bedroom, squinting in the dark, feeling the walls for support.

He leaves the door open just a crack and opens his curtains, moonlight and streetlight flooding in. Scott opens his nightstand and pulls two gifts out. He settles criss-cross-applesauce and sets them in front of him on the floor, gently illuminated beneath the window.

One, a thin envelope with Scott’s name in Stiles’ handwriting cramped in the top left corner, the other, a small square box that gave a low rattle when Scott shook it, given to Scott earlier in the week by Derek with a kiss to the cheek. Both wrapped and staring up at Scott with early morning silence and a degree of dread.

Scott rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands, leaning forward to sit his chin against his interlocked fingers. He takes a breath and reaches forward.

-

**january, 2017.**

Stiles smiles up at him, standing up from the park bench to greet Scott. They start in for a hug but both pause, awkwardly. Stiles laughs, a little. Scott smiles softly, a pang in his hands, his heart.

“Hey buddy,” says Stiles. “You ready for this?”

“Oh, hell yeah.” says Scott, grin growing, knocking their shoulders together.

They head to the ice rink, rent their skates, and spend the next couple hours alternatively falling on their ass and laughing their ass off at each other. Stiles buys the hot chocolate and Scott buys him a thick, wooly red scarf. It’s the best he’s felt, in a while, being next to Stiles. Not the same as it was, exactly, but… maybe it’s better, even, because it’s all honest and wide open between them, and finally, _finally_ the healing isn’t painful, just supportive.

“God you’re a sap,” Stiles says, whip cream on his nose. Scott balls up a napkin and throws it at his face, head tipped back to laugh little clouds into the cold air.

-

**february, 2017.**

Scott takes a single, small breath to brace his nerves and knocks twice before he can think about it. The chain shakes as it unlocks only a minute later, and suddenly he is face to face with Derek.

“You’re wrong,” he says, straight away. “I know you think you’re cursed or whatever, that you think you can’t make something work, that you think if this doesn’t work then we’ll never see each other again, but you’re just wrong. Derek--I love you. I’m gonna love you until I’ll wrinkly, I’m gonna love you tomorrow and I loved you last week and I’ll love you even when you watch Grey’s without me or drink the last of the coffee. You’re not the only one who gets to make declarations, who gets to love really big, really loud, really--you’re just so fucking irrating, honestly! This is going to work, and if it didn’t, you’d still be--you’re still--you’re always gonna be in my life, a part of my life, so I guess I just--I have to ask: is this a love story?”

Derek’s hands gather up Scott’s hands like the most precious diamonds in the world. He holds Scott as tender, careful as ever. His eyes are dark, adoring. Scott has to look away, feeling burned by them. “This is anything you want it to be.”

Scott takes a breath. “I know,” he says, and he stares at Derek, head on, holding everything in his heart very close--and then he lets it all go. “But what do you want?”

And Derek looks at him, a world apart, on a totally separate earth, one that has just cracked in half and shattered. The look in his eyes answers every question Scott had left, they say: “I want to marry you. I want a life with you, forever. I want to wake up and love you every day, until the day I die.”

Then he blinks, and Derek says, “I want you to take me out on that date.”

Scott’s body is full of stars, burning bright. His smile is unstoppable. “Okay,” he says, “that sounds good.”


End file.
